There are always new people on my mailing list People who don't know that every year on Christmas, I take time to remember a fellow named Donny the Punk He was a cool guy He did a lot of stuff Stuff I never knew when I knew him He was one in a billion, but he came in a really weird vessel Of course, we never appreciated him when he was alive He was just a weirdo He died 18 years ago If you have 10 minutes and want to meet an inspiring person, you can do worse then clicking on this link:

http://en wikipedia org/wiki/Stephen_Donaldson_%28activist%29

Every year, this gets more and more dated I don't care The fist time I heard him recite this poem it was the funniest thing I'd ever heard Now, probably not so much But this is the time of year I think of Donny, because for DECADES I did a Christmas show Starting in the mid-eighties But I am not really attached to traditions So no show this year, but I include this poem

It is my sincerest wish that you have a wonderful government sanctioned respite from being productive chicken

A VISIT FROM ST VICIOUS
By Donny the Punk (with no apologies to Clement C Moore)

‘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 phone with care In hope that St Vicious, yes Sid, would be there D K were sold out, so we stayed in our sheds While visions of slammers still danced in our heads Judy, with hash pip, and I , dressed in black Had just settled down to 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 had form the Clash

The strove-light, the acid, the new-snorted snow Gave a luster of Day-Glo to 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 a minute, it must be St Sid More rapid than Springstein, their rhythm it came And he snarled and shouted and called them by name

Now Rotten, now Strummer, now Joey Ramone
On Shelly, on Pursey, 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 rock concert got high When they all start 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 all in black form his head to his toe And a chin ran from shoulder to regions below A black leather jacket was flung on 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, and his breathe smelled of sherry His darkly blue hair was drown 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 Dun” issued forth from the band To be followed by “anarchy in the UK”, “God Save the Queen”, “EMI”, and “My Way” The band played so loud, albums fell from the shelf And I gasped when I saw them, in spite of myself A wink from his eye and some dope for my head Soon gave me to know I should pogo instead He spoke but a word, and that was “D K ” And gave us all tickets, and hash for the day Then putting white powder inside of his nose And spitting it out, he cried “Fuck all discos!” He sprang to the 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 TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!