Twas the Christmas before the World Cup to be held in 2010  
And soccer fans were watching the clock as if it was Big Ben.
Their bodies were stirring, and their minds were aware,
In hopes that the 2010 World Cup soon would be there.

Much of Sam’s Army was nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of smoking hot WAGs danced in their heads.
And mama in her scarf, and I in my US Nats cap,
Had just passed out due to egg nog for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the pitch there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my Snuggie to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and puked due to the dash.

The sight of the moon though brought me back to life.
Or maybe it was the screaming coming from my wife.
When, what to our wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature Skeletor, with a 6 pack of beer.

He also had players with him, a real soccer mob,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Bradley, Bob.
More rapid than Messi, his roster it came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

“Now Jozy! Now, Gooch! Now, Boca and Benny!
On, Howard! On, Holden! On, Donovan and Kenny!
To the World Cup we go! We can’t hit the wall!
Now we must train so then we can best them all!”

And they practiced for hours as soon they would fly,
To face obstacles in Africa, under a dark, stormy sky.
I wanted to sleep though, so I told them to scram.
But St. Bradley yelled “Shut up! I don’t give a damn!”

He said “I’m coming in there to teach you a lesson!”
And as he approached, I could tell he wasn’t messin’! 
As soon as I blinked, I couldn’t see him around,
When down the chimney Skeletor came with a bound.

He was dressed in a track suit, and his eyes they did pierce,
He yelped “My boys need more practice in order to be fierce!”
A bundle of soccer balls he had flung on his back,
Then he laughed and offered me one from his 6 pack.

His eyes – how they burned! My soul they did freeze!
His skin was so pale, and his nose needed a tweeze!
His dry little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the hair on his head was as white as the snow.

The players came in too, and some grabbed beers,
But St. Bradley did remind them of their darkest fears.
What if at the World Cup, their performances were smelly?
What if instead of hard abs, they all had a bowlfuls of jelly?

Now, Bob wasn’t chubby, he was more of a skinny elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
But with a wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
I soon understood that it was only losing he did dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
He ran them for hours, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He spit on my roof and gave his team a whistle,
And away they all flew like a Patriot Missile.
But I heard him exclaim, as they were rising up,
“Merry Christmas to all, and let’s win the World Cup!”