‘Twas the night before Christmas and across the red dot,Not a creature was stirring—’cept on Ed Saverin’s yacht.Brokers, jokers and models partying away on the tide,And more than a few throwing up over the side.An elite social network just back from Pangaea,Where they’d bought all the bottles (Champagne not beer…).All of them wasted, seasonally drunk and so jolly,And who’s that girl there? Why it’s MTV’s Holly.There’s some Eurotrash douche, dressed up just like Santa,Slapping at asses and with Four Floors grade banter.Out on deck guys are dancing; topless, smug, tanned and rich,Put on your shirts, lads, this ain’t Abercrombie and Fitch!The harbor ablaze like a marine Christmas tree,Tanker after tanker all the way to JB.Chances of sleep? About as thin as the girls.Their kisses and smiles? About as real as their pearls.The plan for tomorrow—back to Marina Bay Sands,‘Cause there sure ain’t no room down at old 40 Hands.Though coffee sure would help bring them back from the brink,Of a night of festive cheers to every last drink.Now light on the horizon, a slowly breaking dawn,Over these celebrity vampires; hungover, forlorn.No presents in sight, it’s time to cut loose…Wait, look what they’ve found—one more bottle of Grey Goose!
