Santa they say,

Is jolly as can be.

But a happy round man,

Is not the version I see.

His eyes are stone cold,

Like the snow on the ground.

And the stench of his suit,

Will make your heart pound.

He smells of the flesh,

Of little girls and boys.

His bag that he drags,

Does not carry fun toys.

Ropes and knives,

Fill up his brown sack.

For when he comes to visit,

You will never come back.