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a poem

5 febbraio 2017 at 08:50 By

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Winning Poem

WHOLEHEARTEDLY I CHEERED the day
Which came and went without a FUSS
Which led to April, then to May,
And seemed would BUCKLE under us.
Three stars – and each with their own BEAM –
They MERRILY PEERED down at me,
As QUEER as such a thing might seem,
And BECKONED in the Christmas tree.

But, Oh, BLASTED CROOK! WICKED CURSE!
What yuletide wizardry or SPELL
Has made us oh-so-soon averse
To first traversing turkey hell?

PLUCK of poultry, pick of LOT,
See first to whom the LABOR‘s DUE,
To whom the day is all for naught.
The rest? May dishes leave them BLUE!

WHIP and WHISK, BANTER in the dark,
The SPOILS are almost ours to boast
(Or to the floor upon a BARK)
And “no Saint Nick!” will be our TOAST.

Alas, the BINGE has made us BOW,
Our feet FLIPPED to the air, and then
With WEARY WAVES of fist avow
To never eat so much again!

Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
So thick and LUSH to signal mirth;
Would that this pain would leave from me
But all that’s left to say is: “WORTH.”

By Jose Cazares, from Sacramento, CA, United States

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