Another year, another home,
Another colored paper.
I’m not abused, merely unused;
A melancholy caper.
I’m passed around from town to town,
Each owner feigning cheer
To unwrap me with family
Each and every year.
I may have been a bestseller
That’s long since been forgotten
Or a perfume or a candle
That smells like something rotten,
A gidget, doodad, souvenir,
Or other miscellaneous crap.
I’m the gift you keep on giving.
See you next year! That’s a wrap.
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If you make some lemon chiffon
Then add escargot and dijon
Then turn up the mixer
You make an elixir
That makes wife cook all meals from now on.
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There was a thump by the fireplace
So I snuck out to see
If I could catch old Santa Claus
Putting gifts beneath the tree.
Sure enough, that fat jolly elf
Was supplying Christmas cheer
While muttering curses to himself,
Halfway through a six-pack of beer.
“Hi Santa”, I said, then charmingly smiled.
Saint Nick jumped a foot in the air.
“What on earth are you doing, young innocent child?
“It’s way past bed time. Don’t you care?”
And so I was stuck in a Catch-22:
To say that I cared was a lie
And as any child my age surely knew
That would make my presents go goodbye
But to say I don’t care about bed time
Is naughty list stuff (or adjacent)
So I smiled and said, “Oops, off to bed!”
And I went to my room to be patient.
Next morning I woke and discovered, delighted,
My gifts were still under the tree
So that drunk so-and-so who guffaws “ho-ho-ho”
Must be naughtier even than me?
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“Ho ho ho”, I said
Checking twice the naughty list,
Always swiping right.
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There once was a dancer whose thighs
Were of the most momentous size.
Picking up girls was easy
And he never seemed sleazy.
Alas, he was just into guys.
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What if the dragons never died
But decided just to stay inside
And collect the unemployment gold
Until they’re all dried-up and old?
They’d love something to be working on
But the princess kidnapping jobs are gone
Thanks to the fall of monarchy
(The dragon version of ChatGPT?)
So instead the wyrms grow older still
With nothing inspiring a fiery kill.
Is that better than them being dead?
These are the thoughts that fill my head…
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If you’re in need of a business idea
I have a suggestion for you:
An apartment complex for people who want
To live like 1992.
The rent will be $500 a month
And the internet’s 10 sites or so,
Your neighbors are friendly, their kids play outside,
And Roseanne’s your favorite show.
A black Friday toaster is 25 cents
And so is a Big Mac with fries
And you can get Cracker Jack from Cracker Barrel
And it comes with an actual prize!
Phones have a wire, movies are physical
And they need to be rewound.
Nostalgia is hot. Spending money is not.
Does not this idea seem sound?
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‘Twas the night before Monday,
The holiday’s end,
And the workers had finished
Their Black Friday spend.
Their cars were all parked
With their windshields frosted
And bellies were bulging
From turkeys accosted.
When all of a sudden
There came such a clatter
And the bosses were shocked,
Asking what was the matter
That caused half the workers
To all call in sick.
Was it coincident timing
Or some type of trick?
So the managers dialed
A flurry of phones
And said, “Hey how are you”
In indifferent tones
Before they proceeded
With the meat of their call:
“You must come in tomorrow
“Or not come back at all.”
And so all the workers
With debt growing daily
Said “Sure, see you Monday”
While giggling gaily.
Then the bosses drove off
To their villas, inspired.
Merry Monday to all!
Get to work or you’re fired!
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You can’t assault the willing
Or rob the destitute.
You cannot kill the corpses
Or silence the already mute.
You can’t raze the fallen
Nor an existing travesty botch
So if you feel targeted
Maybe take it down a notch.
The Daily Travesty 