The Drunkest Little Elf

A Poem About Spirit

Way up north,

Somewhere near the top of the world.

Sits a magical village

The dream of every boy and girl

Where the factory’s always humming

Every day and every night.

Full of jolly little men

Creating joy with all their might.

But far back in a corner

Sits a pile of fucked up toys.

A football made of spaghetti,

A whistle that makes no noise.

A doll with the head of a lizard,

A toy oven that explodes to the touch,

A razor blade tied to a jump rope,

A pogo stick made from a crutch.

And head down on the work bench,

Smells like he might have pissed himself,

Is the creator of these fever dreams

The Drunkest Little Elf.

This is the story of the Drunkest Little Elf

Santa left his misfit toys away up on the shelf

Because they’re things with which no child would want to play

But you’re right, drunk little elf,

Santa’s just being an asshole anyway.

Drunken elf, no one understands your vision

As the creator of new toys.

A stuffed dog that sniffs out bullshit.

A vibrator for boys.

A board game based on suicide.

A remote controlled turd.

A little baby with the face of Muhammad Ali

And the body of a bird.

I’d like to say that he saved Xmas

When the sleigh ran out of gas.

But he just pounded a pint of Maker’s Mark

And grabbed Mrs. Claus ass.

Then he shook his dick at a reindeer

“Wind me up!” he screamed “Here’s my crank!”

If your presents smell like vomit this year

You know which little guy to thank.

The other elves don’t want to sober him up

They load him up and watch him go.

Because everyone knows the best sight in the world

Is a drunk elf face down in the snow.

This is the story of the Drunkest Little Elf

Santa left his misfit toys away up on the shelf

Because they’re things with which no child would want to play

But you’re right, drunk little elf,

Santa’s just being an asshole anyway.