Like burnt-out coals, no longer live,
My snow blind eyes will not revive,
And what of memories, youthful drive?
The joie de vivre I should derive
Recalling courting in some dark niche,
No! In icy worlds I’ve dwelt.
Why am I thought a mere buffoon,
Never honored in Nast cartoon
Like Santa Claus, that red baboon,
Who’s little more than a marketing goon.
Snowmen sometimes get the itch,
But oh! Frigid cards we’re dealt.
Perhaps I’m conceived as second rate,
With anatomy some may not find great,
Top hat passé, suit out of date,
A supposedly cold and stiff bedmate!
But what kind of Pole could Santa pitch
Beneath his flabby red pelt?
He has his Vixen, the slimy perv,
And lots of elves to bend and serve,
Lap-dancing children give him verve,
He really has a lot of nerve!
Still, that porker’s getting rich,
With little below his belt.
The Coke heads pay him to drink their brew,
(Sugar-plum dreamers don’t have a clue!)
Whereas I have ever been upright and true,
Even when a fickle wind blew.
But I’ve never played stoolie, rat, or snitch,
If they but knew how it’s felt!
I may be round, but I’m never flaky
And my carrot nose is long and snaky,
Perfect when snow angel’s hearts are breaky.
But Ice Queens get I, my love life is shaky.
No Britney for me, upskirt not a stitch—
I get damp lumps! Hardly svelte!
But one season did bring a mourning maid
Casting spells. Comely, in black arrayed;
(Her sister had been—by a house!—belayed.)
I marched yellow roads through meadow and glade,
To find the heart she stole, the witch!
And still, before her I knelt!
She had her points, though, I must say.
She had a broom on which we’d play,
And our noses, both, were pointed and gay.
A cursèd Kansan clocked her one day.
She couldn’t take water; I’m solid, no glitch—
But Kansans can splash like smelt.
My poor Queen pooled, a thawed ice cube tray,
Or like bitter tears! Yet still I pray
To whatever gods that guide the day,
Why are we mortals bedeviled this way?!
Life is unfair and life is a bitch,
And then—And then you melt!