Bet your ass I wouldn't return presents like these for the cash.
'Twas X-Mas month at Wop's pleasure palace,
and Doc was still salty that the Lions whooped Dallas.
Tatted brunettes tongued earlobe, their massive busoms all bare
as they ran fingers through his scalp, unburdoned by hair
Woprophiles were nestled in front of the 50 inch plasma
since Hollywood remakes left them breathing miasma
And mama in her knickers, and I in the buff,
tried watching Rob Zombie's latest, so bad, it was tough.
When out in the alley there arose such charivari,
wafting in through the window like fried calamari.
Away to the front door I sprung like a Kenyan in joggers,
to see who fate had added to our genre film bloggers.
Self-proclaimed horror queens did battle in mud,
to live hardcore music played by Blood for Blood.
When, what appeared in this, unlikeliest of sectors
But a Roman chariot, pulled by horses named after directors.
With an Italian on the reins, so dashing and witty,
he puffed on a Newport and squeezed one girl's D titty.
More rapid than Makos his coursers they came,
And he cursed, obscene gestured, and called them by name!
"Now Argento! Now, Fulci! Now, Soavi ...Henenlotter!
Eh, Franco! Eh, Jodorowsky! On Meyer and Waters!
To the top of 8th Ave! To the late Forty-deuce!
Now dash away! Dash away! Let's all get loose!"
They popped outta sight like one a' Frigga's oculars
'cept for Wop's junk which intrigued bitches spied via binoculars.
So up to the house-top the nutters they flew,
With the chariot full of reviews, and Ol' Wopifex too.
Invite me to your big hoity-toity holiday feast, c'mon, you know you wanna!(Seriously though, don't.)
On the roof of the building a clatter arose
as neighborhood sex kittens all stripped off their clothes
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
The back door came unhinged and in Wop came with a bound.
He was dressed like a praetorian, from proud head down to foot,
And his toga was all tarnished with resin and soot.
A bundle of reviews he had flung on his back,
a righteous cult peddler, in Doc Martens of black.
His eyes-batshit crazy! His dimples, adorable!
His temples inked up, Roman nose unignorable!
His signature smirk was drawn up like a dandy,
And on the goat on his chin was some choice nostril candy.
The carb of a glass piece he covered with thumb,
inhaling a cloud that made his brain numb.
Despite being stoned, a true word virtuoso,
with a chin of Fascism just like ol' Emme Rosso!
A writer, a devil, or a violent-prone thug,
Made more capricious by constant intake of drugs!
His fist in my eye and a butt from his head,
Soon gave me to know I had to shave off my gay dreads.
He took note of the big screen and it's current state of duress,
"What this shindig could use is some classic Dave Hess!"
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
while inhaling a shneezer, his toga impressively rose!
He sprang to his chariot, to his crew gave a whistle,
And away they all grooved to Dippy's Epistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"They say I'm the best, and those fuckers are right!!!"
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