`Twas the night before New Years, when everyone's drunk
Not a rocker was stirring, not even a punk;
The Baggies were hung by the phono with care,
In hopes that Saint Vicious, yes Sid, would be there.
There Ramones were sold out, so we stayed in our sheds,
While visions of slammers still danced in our heads.
Susie with hash pipe and I, dressed in black,
Had just setteled down for a long-playing track.
When out in the alley there arose such a clatter,
I crawled from the couch to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I lurched with a crash,
Tearing a poster I'd had from the Clash.
The strobe light, the acid, the new snorted snow,
Gave a lustre of Day-Glo to the objects below.
When what to my unfocused eyes should appear,
But a miniature stage, and a band I could hear.
With a singer who danced; by the Pogo he did
I knew in an instant it must be Saint Sid.
More rapid than Springsteen, their rhythm it came.
And he snarled, and shouted, and called them by name:
``Now Strummer! Biafra! Now Joey Ramone!
On Bators! On Patti! On Cook and on Jones!
To the top of the amps, kick over the wall!!!
Now ANARCHY, ANARCHY, ANARCHY ALL!!''
As punks that before a concert got high,
When they all started to Pogo, mount to the sky.
So up to the window, the rockers they flew,
With powerful speakers, and Saint Vicious too.
And then in a twinkling I heard on the trunk,
The swearing and cursing of each famous punk.
As I drew on my pipe and was turning around,
Down the vent shaft, Saint Vicious, he came with a bound.
He was dressed in black from his head to his foot,
And a chain ran from his shoulder that was tarnished with soot,
A black leather jacket was flung over his back,
And he looked like a heretic freed from the rack.
His eyes, how they flashed, his smile, how merry!
He staggered right in, his breath smelled of sherry,
His darkly blue hair was drawn up in a spike,
And the rest of the punks were attired alike.
A portable mike he held tight in his hand,
``Holiday in the Sun'' issued forth from the band.
To be followed by ``Anarchy in the U.K.''
``God Save the Queen,'' ``EMI,'' and ``My Way.''
The band played so loud the albums fell from my shelf,
And I gasped when I saw him in spite of myself.
A wink from his eye, and no dope for my head,
Soon came me to know I should Pogo instead.
He spoke but a word, and that was ``ANARCHY''
And gave us all tickets and hash for the day!
Then putting white powder inside of his nose,
And spitting it out, he said: ``Fuck all discos!''
He sprang to his stage to the band gave a shout,
And away they all jammed till Saint Vicious passed out.
But I heard him exclaim, with the last of his might,
``SCORCHING PUNK ROCK TO ALL, AND TOO AWFUL GOOD NIGHT!!!''