I've killed every mouse.
The stockings are hung; the presents are wrapped.
The eggnog is chilling; my poem isn't crap.
That's about all I got left tonight. I am absolutely exhausted.
Saint Marty's ready for visions of sugarplums and maybe a fifth of Bailey's to warm the cockles of his heart.
|It's not cute, no matter what hat you put on it|
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