Oh Christmas time comes but once a year with Santa Claus spreading presents and cheer. He flies through the sky, gifts piled high in his

slave, for the children to open upon Christmas day. And while this act brings both joy and elation,

should we not consider his deeds implication?

How does Santa that jolly old gnome have time to visit every child's home?

As Earth's population continues to grow.

His time stays consistent,

and so that ratio should theoretically

spiral out of control.

And yet, not once has he failed his Christmas goal.

How could this be? Man has pondered for ages. Yet doctors, philosophers, druids, and stages have all come up short and their explanation.

Until, well, that is, for this humble merration, who am I, not important, I'd rather not say.

But I have a perversion that involves Christmas Day.

Peeping Tom, lookie Lou, a voyeur, if you're French,

I gaze into windows while cranking my wrench.

Look, I know I'm a monster, but please hear me out,

for I witness the scene that you must hear about.

At the North Pole this Christmas all covered in snow. There's me

pants pulled down pressed to the window and when I gazed in, what did I see, but a room full of Santas staring back at me.

Man, they beat my ass. I know I deserved it. I am, after all, an old Christmas pervert.

And if you call me a liar, well that would be a shame, for I tell you this, truly, when they beat me, I came.

Oh, ho! Oh! You're going to. The What was that?

Oh, just another Christmas pervert. I chased him off, don't worry about it.

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