It was Christmas in Kissville and Gene was annoyed,
For this was the season he never enjoyed.
He’d found out some years back that people just weren’t buying
The mountains of Kiss stuff that he was supplying.
“They’d rather give rubbish to girls and to boys,
Than my officially licensed Gene Simmons toys!”
Gene grumbled to himself as he signed an agreement
To sue a Thai company for copyright infringement.
“What I need to do is to own this whole season!
I need to make sure that the folks have no reason
To buy anything other than Kiss-sanctioned things,
Like the new Kiss speedometer, or these Kiss water-wings,
Or the Kiss sub-machine gun, who wouldn’t want that?
As a present it’s better than Doctor Who tat!”
So later that day Father Christmas he rang,
And demanded to meet the grizzled old man.
“I need to own Christmas,” Gene told old St. Nick,
When they met at the North Pole, the snow falling down thick.
“You want to own what? This is surely a prank?”
“I assure you it isn’t… I’ve been to the bank!”
And Santa assumed that Gene was being funny,
Right up to the point that he showed him the money.
“Christ!” cried the old man. “Where do I sign?”
“Here, here and there, Santa – right on the line.”
And after he’d signed, he was off with the bucks,
“Do what you want, Gene, I don’t give a fuck!”
Gene chuckled as off Father Christmas did sprint,
“If only the bastard had read the small print!
He’d have noticed my lawyers included a clause
That if this doesn’t work out under USA laws,
He’ll owe the money back, plus a stipend
To cover my costs – into debt he’ll descend!”
(In matters financial, I’ll offer this warning,
To beat Mr. Simmons, get up early in the morning.)
And so armed with the contract, Gene set about
To make Christmas ‘Kissmas’, he had no doubt
That the people would soon come around to his view
That an exclusive Kiss Christmas was long overdue!
“This night I can promise they’ll receive nothing finer
Than my great Kiss products – manufactured in China!”
So that Christmas Eve Gene mounted his sleigh
And was off to deliver, much to children’s dismay,
Kiss stuff that parents just found unacceptable,
Gene didn’t care – it was all non-refundable.
Like the Kiss garden shears he gave little Lisa
And then made her mother stump-up for on VISA.
Or the Kiss man-sized tissues he sold one little tyke,
The boy was in tears – he’d wanted a bike.
At one house he went to, the kid was still up,
So he opened his bag for the sweet little pup.
“And what do you want from my big bulging sack?
(And if you crack a joke kid, you ain’t getting jack).”
The boy, who at Christmas was used to surprise,
Looked down at the collection of Kiss merchandise.
“To be honest I wanted a PlayStation 3.”
“Then here, little boy, a new Kiss CD!
Now you owe me 10 dollars, including VAT.”
“But it’s fucking Christmas! You mean it’s not free?”
“Oh, nothing in my world comes without charge,
Now hand over the money, you owe me 10 large.”
“I’ll go and get dad, he’s got all our money.”
“Not since I paid him a quick visit, sonny!”
“But that means I don’t get a Christmas present, no?”
“You don’t get the CD if you ain’t got the dough.”
“This is the worst Christmas I’ve ever had!”
“Don’t blame Gene Simmons, kid, blame your dad.”
And with that the boy buggered off back to bed,
And prayed to Lord Jesus that Gene crashed his sled.
Meanwhile the leaders of the world gathered round
And agreed Gene Simmons must be brought to the ground.
“Only one man,” they said, “can stop Simmons’ sleigh,
Britain’s ‘Mr. Christmas’ who wrote Saviour’s Day,
And Mistletoe And Wine and that shit Millennium Prayer –
send for Cliff Richard with his strangely brown hair!”
So Cliff was despatched on his sleigh powered by God,
To bring down Gene Simmons, the penny-pinching sod.
“Desist in your commercial Christmas high jinks,
Thanks to you, Gene, you’ve made Christmas stink!”
Cliff roared at the rocker, having caught up with Gene
Trying to sell tea-towels to a muttering teen.
“I’ll do no such thing, Cliff, Christmas is mine!
It’s all perfectly legal – I got Santa to sign!”
“As God’s representative down here on Earth,
I declare null and void you stealing Christ’s birth!”
And then, to Gene’s horror, Cliff started to sing
One of his insufferable Christian hymns.
“No, stop!” Gene cried. “My sleigh’s fuelled on rock!
Your insipid warblings will cause it to stop!”
Cliff sang him his hit song, Mistletoe And Wine.
“Oh fuck! I’m going down! You God-bothering swine!”
As he fell from the sky, Cliff heard Gene say,
“There’s no excuse for giving anything awaaaaaaaay!”
And so thanks to Cliff, Noël was restored,
And the singer went back to being ignored
By everyone but the bewildered and old –
For now that the problem of Gene was resolved,
There was no further need for Jesus to appear
In the festival of Christmas, which is all about cheer
And eating too much and excessive drinking…
And buying the wife crotchless knickers without thinking.
But who could the world entrust the safe-keeping
Of this special season when lords go a-leaping?
A conference was held to decide who should be
The keepers of Christmas, the spreaders of glee.
And they quickly concluded only one band made the grade,
The world, in agreement, handed Christmas to Slade!
Merry Christmas!
