Quote:
Originally Posted by Talk Host
I personally enjoy Christmas rap.  |
I remember one christmas song that was very rap-esque in the day and found another for us bikers
‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the pad, Not a hipster was swinging, not even old Dad; The chimney was hung in the stocking routine, In hopes that “The Fat Man” would soon make the scene; The moon and the snow were, like, faking together, Which made the scene rock in the Day People weather, When, what to these peepers should come on real queer, But a real crazy sleigh, and eight swinging reindeer, As sidemen in combos pick up as they stomp, When they swing with the beat of a Dixieland romp, So up to the top of my bandstand they flew, With the sleigh full of loot, and St. Nicholas, too. His lids-Man, they sizzled! His dimples were smiles! His cheeks were like “Dizzy’s,” his break was like “Miles!” His puckered-up mouth was, like, blowing flat E, And his chin hid behind a real crazy goatee! He blew not a sound, but skipped right to his gig, And stashed all the stockings, then came on real big, And flashing a sign, like that old “Schnozzle” bit, And playing it hip, up the chimney he split; And then, in a quick riff, I dug on the roof, The jumpin’ and jivin’ of each swinging hoof. As I pulled in my noggin, and turned around fast, Down the chimney came Nick like a hot trumpet blast. The tip of a butt he had snagged in his choppers, And he took a few drags just like all cool be-boppers; He had a weird face, and a solid reet middle That bounced when he cracked, like a gutbucket fiddle! He was wrapped up to kill, Man, a real kookie dresser! And his rags were, like, way out! Pops! He was a gasser! A sack full of goodies hung down to his tail, And he looked like a postman with “Basie’s” fan mail. He was shaking with meat, meaning he was no square, And I flipped, ‘cause I’d always thought he was “longhair!” But the glint in his eye and the beat in his touch Soon gave me the message this cat was “too much!” He flew to his skids, to his group blew a lick, And they cut out real cool, on a wild frenzied kick. But I heard him sound off, with a razz-a-ma-tazz: “A cool Christmas to all, and , like all of that jazz!”
for the bikers:
Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the pad,
There was nada happenin', now thats pretty bad.
The woodstove was hung up in that stocking routine,
In hopes that the Fat Boy would soon make the scene.
With our stomachs packed with tacos and beer,
My girl and I crashed on the couch for some cheer.
When out in the yard there arose such a racket,
I ran for the door and pulled on my jacket.
I saw a large bro' on a '56 Pan
Wearin' black leathers, a cap, and boots (cool biker, man).
He hauled up the bars on that bikeful of sacks,
And that Pan hit the roof like it was running on tracks.
I couldn't help gawking, the old guy had class.
But I had to go in -- I was freezing my ass.
Down through the stovepipe he fell with a crash,
And out of the stove he came dragging his stash.
With a smile and some glee he passed out the loot,
A new jacket for her and some parts for my scoot.
He patted her fanny and shook my right hand,
Spun on his heel and up the stovepipe he ran.
From up on the roof came a great deal of thunder,
As that massive V-twin ripped the silence asunder.
With beard in the wind, he roared off in the night,
Shouting, "Have a cool Yule, and to all a good ride!"
L and L