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The Lionheart Chronicles
Just some rambling from a hermit, scratched on the wall for future people to see.
Twas the Day of Christmas
Twas the day of Christmas, here in my house.
I was sitting on my a**, quiet as a mouse.
Playing Skyrim with my lvl 16 mage.
When a knock at the door sent me into a rage.

It was a drunkard, in a Santa outfit.
His beard was cheesy, his breath smelled of s**t.
I proceeded to ask him: "What the ********?"
"If your looking for a handout, your s**t out of luck!"

He smiled at me, teeth the darkest brown.
Then he said: “Why, Santa has come to town!”
“I've come to rob your house clean and bare.”
“I'm going to take everything, even that pretty hair!”

I stepped back, only for a moment to pause.
Staring at the dirty, fake Santy Claus.
My foot then began to itch ever so.
I wanted to plant my foot in his “ho ho ho”.

Then I pointed, at the neighbor's yard.
When he turned round, I kicked him hard.
My foot hit him square in his a**.
That will teach Santa, to give Luis sass!

I came back inside, and shut the door.
Having to deal with this s**t, not a second more.
I went back to play my awesome video game.
When at my window a tapping came.

He was there, just a tapping.
His man boobs swayed, violently flapping.
At the top of his lungs he would yell:
“I swear Santa's gonna kill you, and send you to Hell!”

I took a second, to figure out.
The one thing, that I was going to shout.
I let out a groan followed by a hiss.
I then yelled: “You want a piece of this Miss?”

I went outside, to my backyard.
He swung at me, like a rage filled tard
Drunk off his a** from Wine and Gin.
He missed me again, and again, and again.

I lunge forward, kick him in the balls.
“Maybe that, will deck your ******** halls!”
“I swear I'll murder you!” He screams.
I then thought: “He doesn't get the point it seems...”

I beat his ugly face in, punching his head.
I could care less, if this s**t brick was dead
I then say: “Get your fat a** back to either of the poles!”
“I just wanna get back to playing Elder Scrolls!”

He starts to limp away, barely standing.
He slips in dog s**t, to a rough landing.
In a fit of rage he screams:”Stop laughing d**k!”
“Next year expect a visit from old Saint p***k!”

I followed him a ways, up the drive.
Just to make sure, that the douche was still alive.
He went all the way to the end of the road.
A stench followed him as if he had dropped a load.

As I went back inside, glad to be done with this.
I went to the bathroom, and took a quick piss.
I slapped my a** and proceeded to sit.
Merry Christmas to all! And to all a good s**t!

Benor the Lionheart
Community Member
  • 04/14/13 to 04/07/13 (1)
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