Merry Crackmas everyone!
'Twas the night before Crackmas, and on Windsor Drive,
Rob Ford was post-tripping, just barely alive;
The envelopes were stashed in the bathroom with care,
In hopes that St. Dixonblood soon would be there;
The Bassos were cowering under their beds,
While large men with black batons bashed on their heads;
And Sandro in his Escalade, with Rob's phone on his lap,
Had just threatened Dixon Road out of their crap.
When down in the den there arose such a clatter,
Rob rolled off the couch and emptied his bladder.
Away to the bathroom he couldn't stop trippin',
Yanked open the shitter and threw up jerk chicken.
His eyes -- they were glassy! his demeanor how petty!
His teeth were like gravel, his forehead all sweaty!
His thin little mouth was still speaking too slow,
And the coke up his nose was as white as the snow.
He picked up his pipe, lit a flame underneath,
And the crack smoke encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a distended gut,
That shook, when he laughed like a Jabba the Hutt.
He crawled to his car, quick mouthwash for a rinse,
And away Robbie drove, pounding back Russian Prince.
But I heard him exclaim, as he ran over some bikes,
Happy Crackmas to all, you wops dagos and kikes!
