(A postmodern deconstructionist poem)
‘Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring,
Except parents attempting to assemble
Toys with incomprehensible instructions
Considering the prices they paid,
They should come reassembled
With batteries they forgot to buy
And will be sold out at any store
That would be open at this hour.
The children are huddled and snuggled in bed,
Dreaming of toys they don’t really need
Corrupting their selfish little hearts;
Oh, let’s face it, the only time they’re tolerable
Is when they’re semi-comatose
Giving parents a short reprieve
Before the consumerist orgy of Christmas morn.
In other homes, in nearby places
Lonely individuals need one more drink
As they troll YouTube
For one more video
In hopes that they may be first
To comment by typing ‘first’.
The world is now too sophisticated
To believe in Santa Claus
Though it does hope in the miracle
That, for example he briefest moment
After the presents are unwrapped,
They will finally be content.
This is the nightmare before Christmas
For those who already know
Anticipation is always greater than reality.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a night of insomnia.