Hey Ghosts, No Soliciting On Xmas

Last Christmas Eve, this bitch I used to fuck with (who died from a Fentanyl overdose)... she come walking into my house. She was wearing chains and shit and looking pretty fuckin’ hot for a ghost. She tells me I’m gonna be visited by three ghosts and I’m thinking to myself, this some straight Dickensian shit right here. I ask her where she got them chains and she starts telling me but my mind goes wandering to her hard ass nipples and I’m wondering how ghosts even get cold if they dead, so I don’t really hear whatever the fuck she was trying to say to me. But anyhow, the first ghost was the ghost of Christmas past, and that ghost took me all the way back to 1843. This ghost was trying to show me how people used to fuck with Christmas back in the day. Me? I’m like “fuck this ghost”- straight up. I’m a fucking poet. I don’t need you to teach me a DAMN thing. And to prove this, I take a random boy off the street, break his leg, bend him over and force him to say that he’s Tiny Tim, as I ram myself deeper and deeper inside his soft fanny. He’s on and on about “god bless us every one” and some shit. I left trails of figgy pudding all down his backside, and smacked his ass and told him to limp off to the corner store to buy the prize Turkey, and that I’d give him two shillings if he managed to hurry back in 30 minutes, hobbling on that busted up leg of his. That ghost was so disgusted (cause he was old
Fashioned) by what I did to that boy, he said it was useless going any further- and the other two ghosts never showed. Yeah, that’s right... no fuckin’ little Suess creatures melting this guy’s heart. You celebrate Christmas your way, and leave me to do the same. Why y’all white people talkin to ghosts on Christmas anyhow? Ain’t you scared? Why ain’t they scary on Christmas? They still dead, right? Ain’t no such thing as a jolly ghost. That shit’s a myth. Fucking idiots...