'twas the sunday at factory for the christmas party, when all through the place all the crackheads were stirring, as well as the bass, decorations were hung, on the walls with care, and all fucked up people trying to stare, The crowd was nestled, all jammed into place, but everyone there finds a familiar face, my girl in a tube-top, and i with some shades, our trip had just started onto one other phase, When out on the dance floor, there arose such a clatter, i sprang from the couch to see what was the matter, away to the stairs, i flew like a flash, cutting and pushing, i ran and i dashed, The sound of the clapping and whistling below, brought a feeling to me that i did not know, when, what to my wondering eyes should appear, it's jonathan peters spinnning up here, With beats so hard, lively, and quick, i was so happy i cooked an extra lik, more rapid than usual, his beats, they came, we whistled and shouted, and called out his name, There were guys with no shirts, all covered with sweat, standing next some girls, all with fake chests, as the temperature rises, and the smoke gets thicker, they check for an adam's apple, make sure there's no pecker, And out of nowhere, on the main floor, guess who appears, my god it's vivacious, make sure you stay clear, she's on her way, to do a show, she lip syncs and dances, need i say mo, By now it's almost 10 (pm), and jonathan is still going strong, my man, how do you do it, i'm barely hangin' on, the music stops, he has one thing to say, Merry Christmas Motherfuckers, and have a nice day! I Didnt Write This sg