Monday, December 24, 2007

'Twas the day before Christmas
And all through the house
Peter Gallagher was fuming -
By God what a grouch!

Today's Heathcliff was drawn
By ghost artists with care
In fear, perhaps hope
Their slave wages would be there.

Mad Mr. Gallagher did laugh with a wink,
For a bad jokester, he's much smarter than you think.
"Pete" they cried, "we need money for presents!"
"Nonsense!" he yelled back, "help me feast on these pheasants."

They cooked, they cleaned, put the feast on the table
And Gallagher ate it, as quickly as able.
"Sir!" they screamed, "What about our share?"
"I'm the king of this castle, I'm eating what's fair."

"You didn't do a damn thing for this strip," a challenging slave replied.
"Good! It sucked a flaccid cock anyhow," the Boss said, stripping them of pride.
"The wallpaper's plaid, the tree is bent, and why no block letters?
The fuck's in those boxes? Some old ratty sweaters?"

"Well sir," he said, with a curious grin,
"It's a parody of sorts, with the kids it will win."
"Well fuck that," he said, "that cat should be eating those mice,
I'm tired of this strip being kid friendly and nice."

Then Gallagher rose, flinging his chair with such a clatter
And crushed his elf's head with his fist - what a splatter!
"Get back to work, you fucking miscreants!
Fuck your mothers tonight, its Christmas, I'm spent."

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