Cock me up, cob! Everyone is familiar with Clement Clarke Moore's classic 1823 poem A Visit from St. Nicholas, which cemented many aspects of the Christmastide figure of Santa Claus in popular imagination. However, literary experts have long suspected another author, and, while Henry Livingston Jr. has often been cited as a probable candidate, this has never sat right with the world's foremost historians of Cob Cock Day here at DK Vine.

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Happy holidays!

After a long and arduous three year journey of library scouring, extensive bribery of academia and some shoddy tea leaf reading, the truth can finally be told. We have probable evidence that A Visit from St. Nicholas was actually plagarized from an earlier 1812 poem entitled A Visit from Father Cob Cock. It seems to have been penned by an alcoholic drifter named Ned Schleppy, a former priest in the Church of Father Cob Cock who burned his congregation alive because he wanted to see how quickly they would burn alive. He was befriended by Moore, a Professor of Divinity and Biblical Learning, during an interfaith summit in New York's Rensselaer County. After challenging each other to a gentlemanly drinking competition, Schleppy pulled out the tattered paper his poetry was scribbled on to wipe his mouth of the liver bile that his rampant lushness had conjured. It's believed by us that, after catching a glimpse of the first few lines of A Visit from Father Cob Cock, Moore immediately slit Schleppy's throat and decided to reappropriate the piece to promote Christmas instead.

With great pride, DK Vine presents, for the first time in over two hundred years, A Visit from Father Cob Cock. It's quite demoralizing.



A Visit from Father Cob Cock

By Ned Schleppy



'Twas the night before Cob Cock, when through our dwelling

My member throbbed, a proud late winter swelling;

The anal plug was wedged in my retcum with care,

In fear that Father Cock soon would be there;

The kids were bound and unconscious on my lawn;

To serve as bait so I could survive 'til dawn ;

And mom wearing her cob, and I decked with plumage,

Were 'round our Rock, its crumbs which reeked of sewage,

When out in the yard there arose such a clatter,

A violent discharge, the launch of milky splatter.

To my door I flew like Chopperbird in heat,

Stuck my eye to glass and peered out to the street.

The stars were dulled on the crusty yellow snow,

The signs of a hard winter refusing to go,

When what did I see parked off to the slight east,

But a seven-story sleigh and eight grand wildebeests,

With a large chicken man wrapped in a bulky smock,

I knew in a moment he must be Father Cock.

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He's coming to GET you.

More swift than rhinos his Jungle Buddies came,

And he chortled, and bellowed, and coughed them by name:

"Now, Thruster! now, Spurter! now Docker and Spanker!

On, Steamer! on, Pegger! on, Ian and Wanker!

Through the front of the door! to the front of the hall!

Now bash away! bash away! bash away all!"

With a gust much like the wild Gale Hawg's strife,

They crash through my living room, trample my wife;

So through my homestead the wildebeests they marched

With the sleigh of lube, and Father Cob Cock arched;

And then, with a smirk, my rear he began to watch

Licking his beak and patting his giant crotch.

I turned in great fright, without uttering a sound,

Parkouring up the chimney in nearly a single bound.

I felt quite secure, rendering his visit moot,

Even if my clothes were caked with ashes and soot;

Without warning, without nary a song,

I was greeted by the visage of his sixteen-inch dong.

Its veins, how they rippled! its head, how round!

My derriere was soft, my sphincter he would pound!

His manhood slid through the chimney like a snake,

Towards my buttocks which were surely about to ache;

The tip of his cock he used to pierce my plug,

Straight through my colon, up in my belly's mug;

I was now impaled, unable to break free,

He merely laughed, responding not to my sad plea.

He was chubby and plump, a well-endowed old pest;

And he climaxed so hard he ripped a hole in my chest.

His deed it was done and my body left for poor;

He released my tenderness, I fell to the floor.

He spoke not a word, but said it all with my pain,

And placed his glove on my skull, erasing my brain.

And washing my memory like a great flood,

I quickly smeared this poem on the chimney with blood.

He strut to the door, to his team he gave a cluck,

And away they all galloped to their next horrid fuck.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

"Cock me up cob to all, and to all a good night!"


Uncovered in a Bed, Bath & Beyond sewer drain by Hyle. Frightening artistic accompaniment by Matt.