Twas the night before Christmas and what do I see,
My girlfriend is handing a package to me,
It's not what you're thinking,
It wasn't red, green or sparkly bright silver,
Twas brownish and lumpy and smelled kind of (that word doesn't rhyme),
Her eyes, how they twinkled, Her boobs how they squiggled,
Each flouncing and jouncing releasing tiny new temblors.
Her poofy lips, all lusciously red, spoke softly and gently and filled up my head,
She said don't open it, at least not today,
Then she ran out to the lawn and sputtered away,
Faster than eagles and quick as a termite,
In a red, jacked up beamer with cobalt blue flames and the number 7.
I puzzled and mused from the porch to the lawn,
What could this gift, this missive of brown,
What could possibly be concealed inside?
A Dalek? A Fembot? A live Jar Jar Binks?
My mind was a jumble of nixed metaphors,
My fingers, a fumble of not opening before,
A then in a twinkling I had such a flash,
My brain lit up three blocks of the city at last,
With a wink of my eye and a swish of my wrist,
I opened the package, and stood right aghast,
More dastardly than dog poo,
More ig...no...minious than whoopee cushions,
All roundish like dog's bollocks and squishy like jelly,
That brings back the words of men wiser than me,
Now dash away, dash away, dash away all...