This is one of those things that sort of defies conventional description, so, uh, what are we supposed to do here? Is this a drinking game? Is this, like, what happens to egg nog if you leave it out too long? It grows a red jacket and lights some candles?
Ugh, okay. Here's how we're going to do this. We're all going to drink whatever we have on hand, and in my case, that's the day's fourth coffee seasoned with whatever spite I could shake out of the spite tin—note to self: order more spite—and in your case, you can pick your poison, and we're all going to do this with the most minimal effort we can possibly put into anything. Got it? Ok, let's hit play and see what's going on.
All right, all right, stop. Only got two seconds in before Mr. Pause Button got his first punch. First off all, this poem is terrible in every version. This is a bad poem. I realize it's supposed to be a bit of force-fed nostalgia that brought previous generations to weepy tears as they puffed on their cigarettes and made sure the baby's bottle had enough gin in it to put the little twit down for the night, but even in those hoary days of greatness this was a very forced poem that goes on too long and seems primarily devoted to portraying Santa Clause as a thinly veiled Lovecraftian horror that must not be trifled with or questioned lest the fabric of reality tear and the children wake up to find their parents' entrails stuffed into fireplace-mounted yarn stockings.
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