| Twas' the fright before Christmas
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| No one upset me
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| With a big bowl of popcorn, watching TV
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| I stretched, gave a yawn, settled back in my chair
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| In hopes that St. Nicholson soon would be there
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| The children were lying awake without sleep
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| They’d seen all his movies; |
| He gives them the creeps
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| I’d cued up «Cuckoo's Nest» with my trusty remote
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| To the part where he had all the nuts in the boat?
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| When out in the yard, there arose such a noise
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| I turned off the TV to see what it was
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| And what to my wandering eyes should approach
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| But the Los Angeles Lakers, and Pat Riley, their coach!
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| The limo was racing, the team at its heels
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| That’s when I saw him: the man at the wheel
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| He ranted and cursed, and waved round his swizzel stick
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| And I knew in a second it must be Jack Nick
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| More rapid than the Celtics these Lakers they came
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| He screamed like a mad man and called them by name:
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| «Now Magic, now Worthy, now Scott, and Kareem
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| On Cooper, on Rambis, and the rest of the team.»
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| Down the chimney St. Nicholson came with a groan
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| Then he brushed off the suit and said, «Honey, I’m home.»
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| He was wearing a trench coat. |
| With beer it was stained
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| And his shirt was clawed to shreds by Shirley MacLlaine
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| He had a fat face and a flabby beer belly
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| From too many trips to the bar and the deli
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| He said, «Its tough when an actor becomes fat and lazy
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| I only get calls to play weirdo’s and crazies
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| And middle-aged has-been's with washed up careers
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| But I’ll fix them all and play Santa this year!»
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| And with that, he buried his head in the sack and said
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| «Lets see what you get from your old buddy Jack. |
| A hatchet for Daddy…»
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| He reared back his head
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| «To scare all those little buggers upstairs in bed
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| And a stiff drink for mommy in a nice tall glass
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| She could really use something to kill that bug up her chimney»
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| With a wink of his eye and a twist of his face, he threw all the stockings into
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| the fireplace
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| What could I do?
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| What could I say?
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| What would I wear on my feet Christmas day?
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| I asked for a reason
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| And turning his head
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| He looked straight at me
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| And here’s what he said:
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| «Why? |
| You wanna know why? |
| Do you really wanna know why, pal? |
| I’ll tell you why
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| When you’re out Christmas shopping
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| You know, doing your little «Christmas» things
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| With all your little Christmas friends
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| Spreadin all that Christmas cheer, with those stupid Christmas songs?
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| Did you ever stop and think of pickin up a little something for old Jack?
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| Did you ever stop to think of what Jack might like for Christmas?
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| You know, Jack. |
| From the movies. |
| Up on the big screen
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| Pourin his heart out, givin it everything he’s got
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| Day in and day out, just tryin as hard as he can to bring a tiny little bit of
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| sunshine into your miserable little humdrum lives?
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| Did you ever think of good ole' Jack? |
| For a second? |
| NO! |
| Not once!
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| Maybe old Jack just wasn’t that good. |
| Maybe I wasn’t good enough in the Postman
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| Always Rings Twice
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| Acting my guts out for you in that one
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| Cuckoo’s Nest, the Shining, Witches of frickin Eastwick, Prizzi’s frickin Honor
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| All for you, Pal. |
| Just to brighten things up for you
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| Not good enough though, is it?
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| No, you want me to brighten up the Christmas season too?
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| Isn’t that what you want, Pal?
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| Okay, lets make things real bright around here
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| What do you say we decorate the tree?
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| String up these pretty lights here
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| Oh, she’s looking brighter already
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| What do you say we take this cute little angel and ram her on the top branch,
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| huh?
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| How about some gasoline for the whole thing?
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| I mean, lets make her just as bright as she can be
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| What do you say we light her up and chuck her through the old picture window
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| here?
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| No point in having a tree as bright as all that without giving the neighbors a
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| chance to see, don’t you think?
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| There, aren’t you glad ole' Jack stopped by?"
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| The flames towered brightly in the cold, wintry sky
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| As he made for his limo and bade his goodbye
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| And an age may unfold air I fail to regret
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| That visit from St. Nicholson, which I’d sooner forget
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| But I swear by the goose bumps upon my skin
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| That I’ll always remember that devilish grin
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| And his voice, crying out as he faded from sight
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| «Merry Christmas to all, and I hope I never see you again for as long as I live,
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| for crying out loud!» |