NBHC1: Twas the Fight Before Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the land
Teenage boys jerked themselves off, with their right hand.
Young Cyrus could not sleep
With every creek and every peep.
His house was alive with sound,
Why wasn't he giving his penis a pound?

Young Cyrus was waiting,
As young couples returned from their late night dating.
He waited for the man,
The jolly ole fat man that had placed a ban.
The ban was on Cyrus,
It was quite old and written on papyrus.

This ban stated, a truly awful thing,
Cyrus could not enjoy Christmas, not even the bells that rang with a ding.
With this ban in place, Christmas presents were in lack,
So the young boy swore revenge, he sought payback.
He climbed out of bed,
Dressed in black, not red.

Down the stairs he went, out into the cold
Many would find this young man, rather bold.
For he was going to take down the jolly old man,
The monarch of the North, no not Prince Charles in a can.
This was Santa we were talking about,
The man that inspired children not to pout.

Santa Claus was jolly and kind indeed,
But there was something far darker to heed.
The man was not all gifts and joy,
He had a simple, but evil ploy.
To control the children of the world,
Take their precious thoughts, and make them curled.

He would approach with kindness, charity in fact,
When their guards were down, that's when he would attack.
He would bend their wills, contort their young minds,
With swords, knives, chains and binds.
They would assault their parents, one after the other,
On this night no one would be safe, father or mother.

Santa would command his mind controlled troops,
Sending them forth on the world, they would stage numerous coupes.
Kages would fall, nations would follow,
When all was said and done, like pigs they would wallow.
Back to the olden days, before light or hope,
Santa would string parent after parent up with rope.

Cyrus was one of the few, the lucky,
He knew this night would not be ducky.
He had learned of what the bastard planned,
And decided, he would have to make a stand.
To the roof he went, ready to face his foe,
In his hand, none other than cookies and snow.

For you see, two years ago Cyrus had been bad,
The top spot on the naughty list, he had.
The boy had discovered the North Pole,
And entered without paying the tole.
You see, no one ever found the shop, hidden in a snowy hole,
Because the price to enter, was a single tiny soul.

Santa frowned upon unwelcome guests,
So he found young Cyrus and administered several grueling tests.
The youth passed with flying colors,
He killed the yeti, even banged its four mothers.
Cyrus was truly a god among mortals,
But Santa was the Titan, and with anger opened three portals.

From these portals spilled creatures of frost,
Cyrus realized that to get to the presents, he'd win at any cost.
He threw shuriken and knives, a handful of kunai.
The creatures fell, bloodied and many clutching a wounded eye.
Ole Saint Nick was not happy, nor joyful at all,
In his hand, he held a large snowy ball.

"This is my power, you shall now learn,
Fear is a powerful thing, so now you must turn,
A statue of ice you shall be,
A cheap knick-knack in a palace made only for me."
The jolly giant hurled the compact orb,
Cyrus dodged, knowing it was impossible to absorb.

The frosty ball exploded, the palace shook,
Cyrus knew it was time to be a crook.
In the confusion he dashed forth,
Grabbing the essence of the North.
A vial no larger than a pen,
One could easily hide it in a mother hen.

Cyrus ran, and ran he did,
He jumped from a cliff, and down he slid.
From the broken palace, Santa let loose a bellow,
"Come next Christmas your bones shall be Jell-O."
Cyrus smirked, for he had won,
Man for such a small vial this thing weighed a ton.

Back at home he inspected the juice,
For a moment he didn't really think it had been worth the abuse.
However, he popped off the cap,
Took a swig and then lay down for a nap.
In his dreams Cyrus saw them,
The North shone like a gem.

As he observed Santa's paths all across the earth,
They were beautiful, like the opposite of a vaginal birth.
With this power he now had,
No one could catch him, not even he who had called him bad.
Cyrus had time, he had a whole year,
He would be able to prepare, maybe sit down and have a beer.

A year had passed since the fight,
Now here he stood while others waited for new kites.
Cyrus was ready as the sleigh drew near,
From this distance he could just barely peer,
The sight of old Saint Nick,
Man this guy was a prick.

Cyrus drew his sword,
And dashed forward without another word.
He slashed at the flying deer,
He was viscous, using his sword like a spear.
Down fell Dancer, Prancer and Cupid,
God these names were stupid.

Now it was just them, Santa and he,
Cyrus thought, it was a bad time to pee.
He readied himself, chakra brimming,
Santa just stood there, stupidly grinning.
"I see you have grown, your power is great,
I will now strike you down, bear me no hate."

The Claus jumped into action,
But Cyrus was ready, his skates robbing him of traction.
Santa stayed frozen, hanging in the air,
Cyrus chopped off his head, just below the neck hair.
Santa's head rolled off the roof and into the snow with a ploop.
Cyrus pulled down his pants, a dropped a big poop.

The battle was over, yet again he was the victor,
When suddenly there was an earthquake, quite high on the Richter.
The real Santa rose, like Jesus again,
"You fool, I'll snap you like a pen!"
Winds blew hard, biting at Cyrus's nose,
It was time to bring this battle truly to a close.

"Old man it's time to die,
For the new Santa Claus, shall be I.
You had your miserable time,
Find a new job, perhaps as a mime."
Cyrus said with a grin,
He was about to commit the ultimate Sin.

From the heavens roared a beast,
More powerful than a vagina with yeast.
Lighting coursed through the sky,
Mrs. Buttersworth was busy making pie.
A kirin shot down, straight for Claus,
As Santa clapped his hands, the dragon took pause.

"Boy you talk too much,
From this day on, you shall walk with a crutch."
Cyrus wouldn't let this be,
He put effort into it, lifted with his knee.
Santa ran forward and into this trap,
He hit hard with an, "Oh crap!"

Cyrus had kneed him in the balls,
He stood proud as he watched the death of the squalls.
"Santa you can't win, I am better,
Learn from your mother and go back to knitting a sweater."
The old man let out a groan,
With it he took off his hat and gave up his throne.

Now Cyrus sat in the North, as their king,
He made all the bitches sing.
They begged for his dick,
And so he gave it to them, so they could lick.
Santa's body was dropped in a quarry,
And so ends, our triumphant story.