‘Twas the night before Christmas,
And all through the trap house,
Not a cuckold was stirring,
Not even the house mouse.
The muskets were hung on the walls with care,
In hopes that General-Secretary-Saint Mattis would soon be there.
The goons were nestled all snug in their cots,
While dreaming of heauxs and the thickest of thots;
And I in my gear, Bertier in his kit,
Had just sat down for an evening on post, talking that shit,
When out in AO there arose such a sound,
Oh, could it be, Terri Talib digging in the ground?
Away to the thermal, Bertier flew like a flash,
Tore open the optic, to light up some ass.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave off enough ambient to see what was below,
When what to Bertier’s wandering eyes did appear,
But that dumbass true believer crouching so near,
With a little chai boy so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment; he was spotting for that dick.
The radio squawked and over the chatter,
Bertier called out his heavies to discuss the matter:
“Now, Basher! now, Slasher! Now Hammer and Raptor!
On Bruiser! on Stinger! On Carl and Reaper!
To the east of the orchard, just north of the road!
There in those man jams, make Terri explode!”
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the clouds the warbirds flew
With the sky full of metal, and Terri now, too.
As the dust in the distance drifts away,
Bertier takes to his feet to triumphantly say:
“Happy Christmas Terri, you dead-dumb-dick!
Man, this holiday is fucking sick.”