Hip Hop Culture for Grown-Ups
‘Twas the night before Christmas, & all through da hood,
one time stayed on watch for cats up to no good.
The stockings were hung up with tacks by the door,
‘Cuz it ain’t no damn chim-a-neys on the first floor.
All day there was clamor & noise in the street,
‘Cuz the gas man done came & he turned off the heat,
But that’s not enough to stop niggas from blazin’,
What potheads will do to get high is amazin’.
They gathered their quarters & counted their nickels,
& left pennies out, ‘cuz the weed man is fickle.
Who cares ’bout the weather, the rain & the breeze,
Long as they got Swishers & bags full of trees.
Egg Nog is for squares & the taste makes ’em squeamish,
Plus real niggas party with weed & Olde English.
All they want from Santa is intoxication,
& not to get knocked for parole violations.
Too high to sing carols–the words they’d forgotten,
Called up a few hoodrats & asked ’em what’s poppin’,
“Ain’t nothin'” the rats said & bid them farewell,
‘Cuz broke dudes can’t help them with their hair & nails.
No gas for the heater–but they still had power,
& all the Doritos 4 dudes could devour,
They played PS3-Madden 10 as always,
Then heard heavy footsteps stomp down the hallway.
The rent was past due & the landlord was comin’,
They sobered up quickly-tried to think of somethin’.
He banged on the front door confusin’ the thugs–
that spent all their rent money on booze & drugs.
“Hold up!” they yelled out & started to panic,
Not knowin’ what he said ‘cuz he spoke in spanish,
“It’s Christmas, amigo–por favor–some compassion!”,
What he said translates into “Fuck your Black asses!”
“By this time tomorrow you’d better be gone!”,
“Or you’ll sit on your couch while it sits on the lawn!”,
They pleaded but he wasn’t moved one iota,
They offered him weed, chips, even a soda,
He said “Never mind this-I’m calling the cops!”,
Then a noise from the roof caused the landlord to stop.
“On Dancer, on Cupid, on Donder, on Blitzen,”
Niggas ran to the broken window in the kitchen,
“On Dasher, on Prancer, on Comet, on Vixen!”,
The landlord was too shocked to continue bitchin’,
“Whoa, Rudolph.” the voice said–it sounded so odd,
& niggas was so high they thought it was God.
The voice started laughin’-so seemingly jolly,
One nigga said “That’s Joe the Crackhead, prolly”,
They opened the door & looked at the front entrance,
A White man? Around here? That’s quite suspicious.
No badge on his jacket–no gun in a holster,
He had a big velvet bag over his shoulder.
He said “Ho Ho Ho”–they looked ’round for Renee,
but that Hoe was home, she don’t work holidays.
The niggas stared at ’em–wide eyes & dropped jaws,
One said “Hold the fuck on, is that Santa Claus?”,
Just then Santa waved–turned around & he vanished,
The landlord amazed, mumbled somethin’ in spanish.
The landlord just walked off, clearly in awe,
& the niggas couldn’t figure out what they just saw.
Went back in, looked at the clock & their watches,
12am, then they saw all types of boxes,
with laughter so nervous–like something was funny,
first box that they opened had bills & rent money.
They counted & counted it–like they were rich,
That really WAS Santa? Damn. Ain’t that a bitch?
They called up the landlord & told him no worry,
“Your money’s right here-come get it & please hurry,
He said he’ll be there in the mornin’-“I’m tired”,
That shit freaked him out–he went home & got wired.
Just then they heard *pop pop*–a thud in the bushes,
They ran to the window, shovin’ & pushin’,
Some car tires screechin’ & somebody yellin’,
Laid out was poor Santa. Gunshot to the melon.
On top of the roof, as he started to fly,
Some kids without hope commit a drive-by,
The reindeer had fled–scared away by the sound,
& their master–St. Nick–was dead on the ground.
They dialed 911, but what could they tell ’em?,
That Santa caught a hot slug in his cerebellum?,
Even when it’s real people cops take ’bout an hour,
So they got Santa’s corpse & put him in their shower.
Some hours passed by & cops finally came,
They told them what happened-with no one to blame,
So the cops called for back up & pulled out their cuffs,
No witnesses either, they were shit outta luck.
The bracelets got tight on the way to the station,
Felonies and probation violations,
The coroner drove to the morgue in his van,
To perform the autopsy, that was the plan.
But when he arrived & opened the back,
The stretcher was empty, the white sheet was flat,
“This must be a joke,” he thought it was weird,
But the joke was on him, Santa just disappeared.
Meanwhile, the cops kept them niggas in cages,
Been doin’ this type shit to Black folk for ages,
The moral of this story to say the least,
is Santa is dead & don’t trust the police.
-fin* (originally published 12/2011)