If Santa Claus was a rapper, I doubt he’d be jolly. More like rude, crude, with shrewd attitude, prolly. Those gifts that you hear about, distributing wealth? Nigga please, rapper Santa’s keeping that for himself.
Gotta buncha dudes with him, they fill the bags for him. Re-up the stash for him. Empty the trash, & more shit. Long as they work, he got nothin’ to say. ‘Cuz end of the day, he’s the 1 up in the sleigh.
He gotta crib in covered in ice, literally. Let him tell it & he’s too cool to sit in the heat. Never feels the pressure of Christmas, no time, any day…because he knows he ain’t gonna do the shit, anyway.
Reindeers are queer, everybody knows that. So “Ho Ho Ho!” became “Where da hoes at?” Rapper Santa laughs when his wife is bitchin’, ‘cuz he traded the real Vixen for some real vixens.
Red coveralls replaced his sweatsuit. Ice. North Pole. Wrist, & neck, too. Gotta tat by the left eye, “Happy ‘n’ High” & another on the other side, “Fat ’til I Die”
Too lazy to hand out boxes so he hands out money. Beefs with the Easter bunny, every year like it’s funny. Douchebag kinda cat, stuck up & weird. He’s “too rich to deal with bullshit, fuck wha’chu hear!”
Rapper Santa doesn’t exist, much less have a record out. But if he did, he’d follow the plan I’m sketching out. & prolly have a prison record for that extra bounce. Blame this bullshit on the weed. (“What the eff?”) I’m out.