Merry Christmas, world, why not.

The elves are on their stupid shelves

and looking like a horror movie.

But you can’t tell me some little

mushroom-cheeked punk

showing up unblinking, unexpectedly,

each time you turn on a light,

even when you’re in the bathroom,

the little perv, isn’t twisted,

isn’t a big pantaloon-covered

and peppermint-striped middle

finger twisting down like a creepy

barber pole. And besides, shelves

were for books last I heard. Big, fat,

sagging, hairy ones.