An amusing interpretation.
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
We all were hungover, even the mouse.
The stockings were thrown by the chimney without care
In hopes in the morning some new shit would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds
While the wife and I nursed our sore heads.
And the wife in my t-shirt and I with no pants
Crashed faced down for at least a short nap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I dragged myself up to see what was the matter.
Staggering to the window I tripped on Mom’s jacket,
Thinking “I’ll kill the fucker making all that racket.”
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
To me without glasses looked like a blurred glow.
When what to my bleary eyes should appear,
But a fucking real sleigh and eight mangy reindeer.
The little old driver looked kinda sick,
Still I wondered if the idiot could be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Whoa, Dasher! Whoa, Dancer! Whoa, Prancer and Vixen!
Oh, c’mon whoa, Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!”
But they slid right off the roof’s edge and fell to the lawn.
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
St. Nick cursed his displeasure up at the sky.
With the sleigh full of toys now toppled on its side,
St. Nick was damned lucky all he’d hurt was his pride.
Still up to the house-top St. Nicholas climbed,
Determined somehow to still get inside.
And then in amazement I heard on the roof
The scraping and sliding of that crazy coot’s boots.
Just as I thought of where I’d hidden my stash,
Down the chimney St. Nick came with a crash.
He was trimmed out in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of toys he'd had flung on his back,
Was now spilled over the floor in a haphazard stack.
His eyes should have twinkled and his dimples be merry,
But his face was flushed and his breath stank of stale sherry.
His droll little mouth should have been drawn up like a bow,
But the little guy was swearing as he shook off wet snow.
The stump of a joint he held tight in his teeth,
And the scent of grass circled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and didn’t look fit,
Yet I’d never imagined him smelling like deer shit.
I’d hardly call him a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed as I watched him, in spite of myself;
But a glare in his eye and the cant of his head,
Soon made me wonder if I had something to dread.
Still he spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings and called me a jerk,
With a wet hankerchief he then blew his nose,
And turning his back up the chimney he rose.
He climbed down to his sleigh, his team had since righted,
And away they all flew not caring they’d been sighted.
But I heard him exclaim, ere they rose from the snow,
"That’s the last one, boys. Ho, ho, fucking ho!”