#METOO SANTA, YOU PRICK, #METOO

Santa was on the run.
He'd just come offa a two week drunk
& just about made it
from his skid row pad
to his yearly department store hustle
without vomiting
when a five year old tugboat
pounced on his swollen knee.
Sweat began to drip
into Santa's beard.
He twitched & the tug
blew the whistle
not knowing Santa had the DT's
thought he was diddling her.

He took his sorry ass
to The Salvation Army
where he froze his ass off
swinging a bell like Quasimodo,
ho ho hoing
until he thanked some 14th street tootsie
who tossed a quarter in his jar, "hey,
thanks baby," & was told to take a hike.

Santa needed a drink bad
& convinced Mrs. Claus to front him a buck
& help hook up those imbecile reindeer to the sled
thinking he'd get a jump on the 24th & off he went.
Little did he know that all the chimneys
on the Upper West Side were greased.
He slid down the first one like his balls were on his back.
A bear trap's teeth was a kiss from his scrotum.
He looked into the candlelit darkness;
a hundred little eyes were ablaze
with revenge & madness; they started throwing Barbie Dolls
with teensy weensy dildos in their little fingers;
Ken dolls with contraception devices in their fists;
Cook books, nursing school brochures; panties
& training bras. It was the lesbo Village Of the Damned;
it was partisan politics; it was America; it was
Christmas.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017