Twas the night before Christmas, and through the Gem whorehouse,
Not a hoople was fuckin’, Not miner nor souse.
Seth Bullock, no hoople, rode Alma in bed,
And Farnum was listening – sweat poured from his head.
Al Swearingen spilled from his penis so thickened,
His kidney stones, each of which hurt like the dickens.
Wu’s pig’s were a’feastin’ on Dan’s latest kill,
A prospector Al had scammed using a shill.
The whores slept in beds stained with jism and crap,
With Doc Cochran a watchin’ for signs of the clap.
Sol Starr was next door counting shovels and picks,
While Trixie was suckin’ his big Jewish dick.
When all of the sudden arose such a roar
The sound even wakened the doped up French whores.
It rattled and rumbled through Deadwood’s back alleys,
The Black Hills awoke, every peak, every valley.
Then train tracks appeared, built fast as greased lightning
By Chinks who were whipped to degrees that were fright’ning.
They screamed and they moaned and they fell to their deaths,
'Neath wheels of the train close behind the loud mess.
It was George Hearst, arriving with yes men and minions,
On a train whose suspension, all racks and all pinions,
Shook awesomely, fitting his name and his station,
The richest man ever in Indian Nations.
He bought left, he sold right, the town lay at his feet
Al, Seth, and Cy Tolliver couldn’t compete
They packed up their drawers and their whores and their stores
And readied to leave, padlocking their doors.
And then came a chuckle, a laugh and a sigh,
George Hearst was packed too, and he spoke from on high,
“You losers, you killers, you vermin, you dopes,
You’ve bored me to tears, you sick sorry mopes.”
“It was fun while it lasted, but the time has come nigh,
To leave this backwater, to reach for the sky!
I say this because I’m so classy a guy,
Merry Christmas, cocksuckers, I bid you goodbye!”
