Following the False Traditions of Our Fathers.
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  • Twas the Night Before Smithmas

    Twas the Night before Smithmas

    by Apostolic Chaplain Insanad Rigdon

    Twas the night before Smithmas, when all through his house
    Not a creature was screwing, not even a louse.
    His garments were hidden in the corn crib with care,
    In hopes that ol’ Emma would not find the pube hair.

    The young brides were sequestered back home in their beds,
    While visions of the ravaging tormented their heads.
    And Emma in her bonnet, and Joes head in his cap,
    Had just settled down to make up Mormon crap.

    When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
    Joe sprang from the chair to see what was the matter.
    Away to the window he flew like a flash,
    Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

    The moon on the breast of the de-flowered Ho
    Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
    When, what to his wondering eyes should appear,
    But a basket of undies with tell tale pube hair.

    With a little stain, so sticky and thick,
    He knew in a moment it must be his own “ick”.
    More rabid than cougars, Emma’s claws out they came,
    And she shrieked, and she shouted, and called him a name!

    “You Bastard! You Jack-ass! You Jerk and Big Dog!
    You Philanderer! And Pervert! You Oily Fat Hog!
    To the back of the house! to the end of the wall!
    To the MOON with you bastard! Now Fluck away all!”

    As spurned women do when they catch their men cheating,
    She ripped at his coat and he recoiled while bleating.
    So up to the barn door the coursers they flew,
    With the basket of undies and Fannie Alger too.

    And then, in a twinkling, He felt on his back
    The cracking and beating of the handle of the axe.
    He recoiled and ducked and said, “God told me to”
    To which Emma replied, “Yeah right, well Fluck YOU!”

    He was tarred and was feathered, from his head to his foot,
    And Emma stood by and cheered with a Hoot.
    A bundle of young girls stood by at the side,
    with pots of hot tar to be poured on his hide.

    His eyes-how they wrinkled! his dingle, it shrunk!
    His shyte on the street and boy how it stunk!
    His lying little mouth was drawn up like a prune,
    And his franks and his beans were the color of shrooms.

    The stump of his Priesthood he held tight in a sheath,
    And the smoke it encircled his patch like a wreath.
    He had a sad face and an odor so smelly,
    Joe shook when he cried, like a bowlful of jelly!

    He was chastised and exposed, a right naked old elf,
    But he stood by his claims and cried out for Zelph!
    A wink of his eye and a twist of the truth,
    Soon gave him to know he would still get that girl Ruth.

    He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
    And filled all the virgins, then pulled out with a jerk.
    And laying his finger aside of his thigh,
    And giving a nod, said, “What a good boy am I !”

    He sprang to his Temple, to his team gave a whistle,
    And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
    But Emma heard him exclaim, ‘ere he ran out of sight,
    “God told me to do it so I guess it’s all right!”