Department Store Santa!; poem

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  No Houses
Santa is a real b*****d!

Submitted: April 30, 2013

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Submitted: April 30, 2013





Department Store Santa!


Little Bobby was so excited; tonight was the night

He had bugged his parents about it so much, they had finally relented

They were taking him to see Santa Claus at Nedworth’s Department Store

He couldn’t quite believe it; Santa, at the strip mall,

Nedworth’s was the biggest store in Twin Pines Mall;

And Santa himself would be there!


Butch Scour was in a foul mood; his day of unemployment had sucked,

And to top it off, to help make ends meet,

He’d taken this job, as Santa Claus at Twin Pines Mall

Speaking of Santa; he’d better be off;

Wouldn’t want the little dip-s**ts to be disappointed

He took a deep drag on his cigarette; guzzled the last

Of his Headspinner Malt Liquor,

And dispiritedly limped out to his ’73 bloat-wagon

He needed new tires for it, but, thanks to unemployment,

That wasn't going to be happening any time soon!

When he pulled into Twin Pines Mall, he parked,

And stared sullenly at the front door of Nedworth’s

As he stared with loathing, he guzzled another Headspinner,

which was flat from laying under the seat for an emergency;

This would qualify as an emergency, wouldn’t it?

Actually, he’d forgotten it was there,

But it was quickly turned into emergency supplies

As a way to rationalize it to himself.  He finished

Taking a last drag on his cigarette, and reluctantly opened the door

The sooner he arrived, the sooner this s**t would be over!


Little Bobby waited impatiently for Santa to arrive

His mom had headed down the mall to shop,

And his father sat by him on the one of the

Chairs set up for the crowd, a scowl on his unshaven face

He was NOT happy about being here; he was thinking

About the all-night poker game he was missing out on


Quite a while later, the front door opened, and Santa walked in;

Or more like staggered in.  He reminded Bobby of the Santa he’d

Recently seen on a rerun of ‘The Simpsons’; a sad,

Sort of pathetic-looking poor excuse for a Santa

This couldn’t be THE Santa Claus, could it?

Santa limped/staggered over to a recliner chair set up,

And gratefully collapsed into it.  He yelled,

“Form a line here, and tell Santa what you’d like for Christmas!”


Bobby stood in line, and was starting to think he didn’t want

To meet Santa; for several kids had run away crying

After sitting on his lap.  But when he’d told his dad about

His reservations,

 His father had said, “Bulls**t, boy, you wanted to meet Santa,

Well, you’ll damn well meet him; it’s your turn, now get up there!”

And Bobby saw that Santa was waiting impatiently for him,

Bouncing his leg like, “Come on, kid, I ‘aint got all night!”

 Reluctantly, little Bobby approached the seemingly-pissed off Santa

“Hop up here and tell Santa what you’d like for Christmas!”

Little Bobby felt like he was going into the lair of the beast,

As he walked up to Santa on legs that had turned to jelly

“Tell old Santa what you’d like for Christmas.”

Boy, it was all Bobby could do not to lunch his cookies

All over Santa’s black, shiny boots; as he sat there trying to hold his breath,

For his breath smelled like stale beer and ashtrays

“Well, Santa, I didn’t know the North Pole is apparently a tavern,

Because you reek!”  “Okay, that’s it!  I’m out of here; They don’t

Pay me enough to put up with little bastards like you!”,

And he abruptly stood up, and angrily walked, weaving very

Much, towards the exit door.  Shrieks from the disappointed

Children still waiting for their chance to see Santa mixed

With angry, ugly curses from parents, who had patiently waited

So little Junior or little Sue could tell Santa what they wanted,

Mostly so they could overhear, so they could get a better

Idea themselves.  Little Bobby, who’d been thrown clear when

Santa made his abrupt departure, luckily was uninjured,

And relieved.  His father, who was glad he could now

Make the all-night poker game, said, “Come on Bobby, let’s go home.”

“Sure, Dad.  Dad, you know something?  Santa’s a bastard!” 


© Copyright 2017 Mike Stevens. All rights reserved.

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