I apologize for tormenting Christmas again. If I knew how to stop, I would.
This poem made me fall down during a 50K last Saturday. I was woolgathering and BOOM, I was flat on the pea gravel concrete path. I wiped out the heels of both hands, both elbows through long sleeves, and conked an evil black strawberry on my unmentionable when my pubic bone hit. I seem to always fall face down. I was bloody, but not too injured. I ran 23 more miles and finished the race and the poem.
So ... too long? Too silly? Better title? The food porn stanza seems like a weak sister. Help! I've gotten the fun out of it, but now I'm trying to decide if I want to do anything more than read it at Vino's next month.
NO THANK YOU
Hey diddle diddle, December’s a little
surprising, just yesterday it was July.
The isthmus to Christmas from Thanksgiving Day
is narrow and scary and laden with pie.
The pumpkin and mince, whether runny or dense,
have scarcely been given away,
when cookies and candy and Great Balls of Brandy
begin to appear every day.
The presence of peppermint permeates all
despite protestations of When!
Pretzel-armed snowmen arrive in the gloaming
of chocolate darker than sin.
Gingerbread houses and gingerbread men,
marshmallow glop that is sickeningly sweet,
cinnamon coffee and butterscotch toffee
and pastry too pretty to flush or to eat.
Gumdrops and snowdrops, rum drops and blow pops,
covered with caramel and scented with spice.
Coffeecake strudel, the kit and caboodle
of nutcracker soldiers and burnt-pecan mice.
Red and green popcorn is nothing but food porn.
Tootsie roll droppings are not reindeer poop.
Pistachio brittle, Vanilla Bean Skittles,
I’m loco on cocoa, how low can I stoop?
Beware the decanter, a bobblehead Santa.
The syrupy contents would gag a large elf.
For God’s sake, don’t buy it, nobody will try it.
I’ve got one just like it, I bought it myself.
So gird now your loins for the holiday onslaught.
Be merry, but wary; give caution a chance.
Say no when you can. Say yes when you must.
Your thighs will be thankful. You’ll fit in your pants.
This poem made me fall down during a 50K last Saturday. I was woolgathering and BOOM, I was flat on the pea gravel concrete path. I wiped out the heels of both hands, both elbows through long sleeves, and conked an evil black strawberry on my unmentionable when my pubic bone hit. I seem to always fall face down. I was bloody, but not too injured. I ran 23 more miles and finished the race and the poem.
So ... too long? Too silly? Better title? The food porn stanza seems like a weak sister. Help! I've gotten the fun out of it, but now I'm trying to decide if I want to do anything more than read it at Vino's next month.
NO THANK YOU
Hey diddle diddle, December’s a little
surprising, just yesterday it was July.
The isthmus to Christmas from Thanksgiving Day
is narrow and scary and laden with pie.
The pumpkin and mince, whether runny or dense,
have scarcely been given away,
when cookies and candy and Great Balls of Brandy
begin to appear every day.
The presence of peppermint permeates all
despite protestations of When!
Pretzel-armed snowmen arrive in the gloaming
of chocolate darker than sin.
Gingerbread houses and gingerbread men,
marshmallow glop that is sickeningly sweet,
cinnamon coffee and butterscotch toffee
and pastry too pretty to flush or to eat.
Gumdrops and snowdrops, rum drops and blow pops,
covered with caramel and scented with spice.
Coffeecake strudel, the kit and caboodle
of nutcracker soldiers and burnt-pecan mice.
Red and green popcorn is nothing but food porn.
Tootsie roll droppings are not reindeer poop.
Pistachio brittle, Vanilla Bean Skittles,
I’m loco on cocoa, how low can I stoop?
Beware the decanter, a bobblehead Santa.
The syrupy contents would gag a large elf.
For God’s sake, don’t buy it, nobody will try it.
I’ve got one just like it, I bought it myself.
So gird now your loins for the holiday onslaught.
Be merry, but wary; give caution a chance.
Say no when you can. Say yes when you must.
Your thighs will be thankful. You’ll fit in your pants.