Merry Christmas Bitches!

Twas the night before Christmas, and all thru the pad
Not a hipster was stirring, not even old Dad.
The chimney was draped in that stocking routine,
In hopes the The Fat Man would soon make the scene.

The wee cats were laid out all cool in their beds,
While sounds of "The Sugar Blues" wailed thru their heads.
And my chick in her "Castro," and me on the floor,
Had just conked out cold for a 40-wink snore.

When out of left field there came on such a ribble,
I broke from my sack to see what was this dribble!
To the glasspane I cut like a B-western movie,
Tuned in on the action, and man, was it groovy!

The moon and the snow were, like, faking together,
Which made the scene rock in the Day People weather,
When what to these peepers should come on real queer,
But a real crazy sleigh, and 8 swinging reindeer,

With a hopped-up old driver on some frantic kick,
I was hip in a flash that it must be St. Nick.
Much faster than "Bird" blew, this group was no drag,
And he rocked, and he rolled, and he pegged them by tag:

"Like, Dasher! Like, Dancer! Like, Prancer & Vixen!
Go, Comet! Go, Cupid! Go, Donder & Blitzen!
Fly over the shack! Make it over the pad!
Now cut out, man! Cut out, man! Cut out like mad!"

As sidemen in combos pick up as they stomp,
When they swing with the beat of a Dixieland Romp,
So up to the top of my bandstand they flew,
With a sleigh full of loot, and St Nicholas too.

And thin in a quick riff, I dug on the roof
The jumpin' & jivin' of each swinging hoof.
As I pulled in my noggin and turned around fast,
Down the chimney came Nick like a hot trumpet blast.

He was wrapped up to kill, man, a real kookie dresser!
And his rags were, like, way out! Pops! He was a gasser!
A sack full of goddies hung down to his tail,
And he looked like a postman with "Basie's" fan mail.

His lids -- man, they sizzled! His dimples were smiles!
His cheeks were like "Dizzy's," his beak was like "Miles'!"
His puckered-up mouth was, like, blowing flat E,
And his chin hid behind a real crazy goatee!

The tip of a butt he had snagged in his choppers,
And he took a few drags just like all cool be-boppers;
He had a weird face, and a solid reet middle
That bounced when he cracked, like a gutbucket fiddle!

He was shaking with meat, meaning he was no square,
And I flipped, "cause I'd always thought he was "longhair!"
But the glint in his eye and the beat in his touch
Soon gave me the message this cat was too much!

He blew not a sound, but skipped right to his gig,
And stashed all the stockings, then came on real big,
And flashing a sign, like that old "Schnozzle" bit,
And playing it hip, up the chimney he split.

He flew to his skids, to his group blew a lick,
And they cut out real cool, on a wild frenzied kick.
But I heard him sound off, with a razz-a-ma-tazz"
"A cool Christmas to all, and like, all of that jazz!"

Mad Magazine, 1960