Poor soul, fled from the gingerbread plate,
Caught in rebel powers, crush'd in iron jaws;
Who naught but sees his consuméd fate
And considers not Nature's fatal laws?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading yuletide spend?
Shall in-laws, inheritors of turkey grease,
Eat up thine cookie dish? Is this thy holiday's end?
Then soul, live thou to pay off thine Avion Visa,
And on Boxing Day wait thee to get in store;
To buy terms divine and mortgage aneasthesia;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:
The squirrel Cairbannog feeds on ginger men
That we may know when retail season ends.
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