Baby Yule Tree

The North commercialed out the feeling,
and the South wintered out the snow.
What a Christmas surprise?

The miracles stopped in the Golden Age.
Now we know that institutions choose a few days out of the year to be selfless
and Hollywood a few days to be sweet.

I haven't wanted this holly since I was a child,
and it was never for Jesus.
It was for Santa Claus, presents, and Disney,
Manufacture's holy trinity.

But there are people that still feel something.
Somewhere between horny and heavily sedated.
Merry Christmas to those people.

And there are some that I love, so I try to write a poem they can cling to
to feel some care of mine when tradition says they need it.
To them I say I'll love you for the rest of the year, but I just can't save Christmas.
If I do it once, you'll want it again, and I'll have to play the old time record
until my flow dies from anemia.
But have no fear.
I wrote you this poem in maybe an hour, 36.
So that's over 90 minutes that I cared about the 25th.
It was hard, but I love you,
and maybe this is a cough or indigestion,
but Merry... Uh... Christmas
to you and yours.
Don't expect me to give any more damns.
Hey, I'm kidding!
Not really.