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
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.