Beer glugs Santa Claus,
Beer slugs Santa Claus,
Right down Santa Claus’ hatch.
Sippin’, swiggin’,
He’s gonna drain near
The entire brew batch.
Belts he’s drinkin’
Cloud his thinkin’—
He’s getting very tight.
Damn! It’s shocking
To watch him wasted.
Oh, Santa Claus,
This ain’t right!

Beer loves Santa Claus,
Beer glugs Santa Claus,
Right down Santa Claus’ hatch.
He’s in the bag,
Full of juice joy;
Now his beard needs a thatch.
It looks like hell
Pringle crumbles—
What a booze-he’s-full sight.
Nose is red,
He’s out of his head;
Old Santa Claus, drunk tonight.

Beer-drunk Santa Claus,
Here slumps Santa Claus;
He’s emitting flat-
ulence; the air
Can blow, I’m sure—
So do not strike a match!
Santa’s gross,
Worse than small children
Who’re attempting to light
Ill-wind farts—
At least that clears
The air of a rancid-pong blight.

Beer chunks Santa Claus,
Beer chucks Santa Claus
Now the business of thatch-ing’s
Compounded
The besmirching lout
Has sicked up quite a batch.
Peas and perch simply won’t fall
To earth they’re holding on tight.
It’s a thankless chore to scrub
Drunk Santa Claus’ beard that once was white.
Drunk Santa Claus ain’t comin’ tonight.
Drunk Santa Clause mean a toyless plight.