Twas eight nights before Christmas, when all through the city Every creature was drinking, at Q’s and the Kitty. The shots lined the bar, poured with much care, In hopes that some boozehounds soon would be there. The beers were nestled all snug in their kegs, While visions of car bombs danced in our heads. Girls in red tube tops, and Mitch in red pleather, Had figured that pints at the start would be better. When out on State Street there arose such a clatter, Everyone rushed to go and see what was the matter. Away to the windows they flew like a flash, It was us at the bars, armed with Visas and cash. The moon will be out, it’s SB so no snow Where’s not yet decided but to 5 bars we will go. Soon, what to Mitch’s wondering eyes should appear, Next week a list of those bars will be right here. With a little bartender, so lively and quick, It was us on a Pub Crawl, and we were quite sick. More rapid than eagles our drink orders they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called bars by name! "Now Joe’s! Old King’s Road! On, Dargan’s and Cliff Room! On, Kitty! James Joyce! To the Indo and Pressroom! To the top of State Street! The police they will call! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!" And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the street The prancing and pawing of our drunk dressed up feet. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Into the bar we all came with a bound. We were dressed all in fur, from our head to our foot, And our clothes were all tarnished with beer stains and soot. Some elves, an angel, a snowman in back We’ll all be in costume, at the end look like crap. Our eyes-how they’ll twinkle! Our dimples how merry! Our cheeks flushed like roses, our toasts there’ll be many! What a night it will be, remembered by all, As Mitch McBride’s birthday, and a Christmas Pub Crawl. The stump of a pipe can be held in your teeth, Holiday costume required, be it an elf or a wreath. We’ll start at one bar and put beer in our belly, That will mix with our dinner, like a bowlful of jelly! You need speak not a word, but get right to work, And reply to this evite, choose a bar, don’t be a jerk. And laying your finger aside not in your nose, Say yes you are coming, convinced by this prose! We’ll spring to our cabs, to our friends give a whistle, And away we’ll all fly like the down of a thistle. But they’ll hear us exclaim, as we drove out of sight, "Hungover tomorrow, but damn, what a good night!"
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