Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a cockatoo.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Sir Iggy Pop soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of shirtless punk legends lay in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the paved sidewalk there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my Sleep Number Bed™ to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The polluted smoke on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But two tiny dogs.
With a little old driver, so lively and thin,
I knew in a moment it must be Sir Iggy Pop,
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he screamed, and undulated, and then proclaimed,
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little dog foot.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Sir Iggy Pop came with a bound.
He had on no shirt, his hair comprised of stringy gold locks
And his pants were all stained with tequila and Boston Market.
A bundle of punk records he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.
His eyes-how ever were they glossy!
His cheek bones were concave and sunken
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And his bare chest was as hard as a rock.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!
He sprang to his sleigh, to his pups gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”