Snow on upturned ass,
Inspecting earthworms.
Knock! Knock! Who’s there? Chris.
Chris who? Chris Kringle.
Roof’s plugged. Set the rum.
Six thousand presents
Wrapped in dull muslin,
One for each of my
Personalities.
Red hat, red nose. Choo!
An elf with the pelf
Of poetic bids
Constructs sentences
Served with cloying mates.
Self-immolation.
Scarily tight my smile.
Put coppers in my cup,
Friends of inanity.
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