I'm feeling the muse today and writing all sorts of trite nonsense, some of which was inspired by people I know and happenings around the neighborhood. Sometimes bad poetry requires an outlet.
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Twas the day after Christmas, and all through the house
the cats were busy chasing a mouse.
The presents had been opened, leaving messes galore
with wrapping discarded and feelings still sore.
For who had been slighted, getting bupkus-type gifts
and a wailing eight year old who was throwing a fit.
The parents exhausted chose to bury their heads
hoping the noise would stop once he'd been fed.
The day-after breakfast lay limp on the plate,
a sugary feast that barely got ate.
And though they tried to loosen their belts,
the best they could muster was a day-after belch.
Then alas to their wandering eyes did appear
the post-holiday adverts with cheering reindeer.
"Buy this," they said, "and get discounts on that
and don't you dare forget your designer ski hat."
"Return all your discards, then shop straight away.
Get the things you wanted without more delay.
Do not wait until next year for Santa to come,
for the Great Recession may even put him in the slums."
With joyous hearts, the jingles sang,
and the telemarketer woes began again.
Phones set a ringing with a horrendous noise
while children all over begged for toys.
So out into public the poor parents went
looking to avoid accusations of "Grinch!"
For nothing would do until the slight was resolved,
a new toy for one, and new presents for all.
Let this be a lesson for those who would hear.
The best gift for parents is plugs for the ears.
