T'was the night before Christmas, and all through the trailor.
My sister woke up, while I was trying to nail 'er.
The socks was all hung, on my big mounted bass,
In hopes that St. Leon would be hauling ass.
The young'uns bunked down, all snug on the floor,
Each one had a dip, so they slept near the door.
Sis in her 105 shirt, and her John Deere cap,
Looked purty as a naked silouhette on a truck mud flap.
When out in the dog pen, there arose such a clatter,
I got up from sis, to see what was the matter.
When what to my swollen red eyes should I see,
A pink Coup De Ville, 1973.
He staggered so much, I thought, "What was he on"?
And could I buy some of that, from old St. Leon?
All my dogs started barkin, he started to shout,
Dog's hate St. Leon, you figure it out.
"Hey Whitey, Hey Crackerboy", he called me by name,
So I called off my dogs, and on up he came.
When he stepped on my porch, there was such a vibration,
I thanked God I installed a concrete foundation.
He was dressed all in fur, and chains made of gold,
On his feet were Air Jorden's, I 'specked he stoled.
Yes, he had toys, there was no mistakin,
But I still wasn't sure if he was given, er taken.
It was then that he pulled a knife from his sack,
As I readied myself for a Leon attack.
St. Leon surprised me and gave me great glee,
When he gift wrapped the knife, and put it under the tree.
He continued by filling the socks up with skoal,
His good deeds made me feel, like a major bung hole.
Then layin' his finger on the gold stud on his nose,
He said, "Hey Opey Taylor, I gots to goes".
He jumped in his caddy, and turned on the ignition,
Drove down the dirt road, to continue his mission.
I heard him yell out, as I opened a beer,
"Hey you honky white trash, see you mo'fo's next year".
This is just one of those things you get to hear while living in Arkansas
R.I.P. Magic 105