I can't sleep and this is pretty much what goes on here.
Twas The Night Before Christmas In Ivytopia
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the low rent suburban apartment
not a creature was stirring, not even the remote-controlled, catnip-infused mouse.
The stockings were hung by the entertainment center with care,
in hopes that Nick the mail carrier soon would be there.
The cats were nestled all snug in my bed,
while visions of invisible monsters danced in their heads.
And me in my 'kerchief, and oversized t-shirt,
had just settled my brain for hopefully long enough to get enough sleep for once.
When out on the carport roof there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what the freaking hell was going on.
Away to the kitchen window I stumbled like a drunken Flash,
tore open the cobwebby curtain, and threw up the ancient window that was pretty much frozen shut.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen 6 feet of snow
gave the lustre of midday to the downstairs neighbor's collection of junk below,
when, what to my cranky eyes should appear,
but a shopping cart filled with empty cans of beer.
With a little old driver, so gray and sick,
I knew in a moment it must be the dopwnstairs neighbor who's such a dick.
More smelly than the dumpster, his stench it came,
and he muttered and grumbled and cursed us by name:
"Loud Rogers! Punk Justin!
Tall Patrick needs a good lickin'!
Snobby Spencer! The kids next door!
The crazy girl and old Alfred!
Noisy muthafuckas!
Gotta get rid of 'em all!
Now go away! Go away!
Go away all!"
As tumbleweeds that before the average Wyoming winds fly,
when they meet with an antelope or car, mount to the sky
so up to the car port the courses he shuffled,
with the cart full of cans, and Crazy Harris too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the doorstep
the kicking and stomping of each ancient boot.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
into the hallway Harris came with a semi-bound.
He was dressed all in rags, from his head to his foot,
and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of old shoes he had flung on his back,
and he looked like a hobo just opening his pack.
His eyes--how they glowered! His dimples, how nonexistant!
His cheeks were like caverns, his nose like a drunkard's!
His sneering little mouth was drawn up in a scowl,
and the stubble on his chin was as gray as the 3-day old snow.
The stump of God knows what he held tight in his teeth,
and the dirt it wafted from his body like a wreath.
He had a skirting face and a flabby white belly,
that jiggled when he yelled, like a tub full of half-warmed lard.
He was dirty and smelly, a right miserable old man,
and I snickered when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A glare of his eye and a shake of his fist
soon gave me to know I had nothing to give a rat's ass about.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his cave,
and filled his hovel, then turned with a jerk.
And sticking his finger inside of his nose,
and giving a quick swipe, he pondered himself.
He adjusted his crotch, to himself an insane murmur,
And scuttled into his lair like a crab on steroids.
But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he melted out of sight,
"Shut that Goddamn hippie music off alright!"
