Twas the night before Christmas way down on skid row,
Not a creature was stirring, not even the ho's.
The pimps were chillin on the corner with care,
Hoping snitches didn't drop dimes to the PoPo who was near.
Crackheads were snuggled and nuzzled in stoops,
While sleeping they prayed in their pants they wouldn't poop.
Me, in a motel, scared under a bed,
Praying morning will come and not find me dead.
When outside the window there arose such a clatter,
I said, "Fuck that shit, I see nothing, it don't matter."
I peeked out the window to a bang and a flash,
thought I saw a brotha run a three hundred yard dash.
The moon on the breastesest of a slapped up trick,
let me know not tonight would I be seeing St. Nick.
When what to my wandering eyes should appear,
but a trashtruck driven by a dude with one ear.
With a route running late, and a "downed ho" in way,
homey hit the gas and took off, he didn't play.
More rapid than eagles he cursed out some names,
he gristled and shouted and bubbled out blame.
"You trippin if you think your gonna get me,
mothafuckers my ass wasn't born last week."
Like that he was gone in the fog of the night,
and I knew that my Christmas had surely taken flight.
By, Daniel Ponsky
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