Her words flow effusive
Like lava, molten. Melting rocks
Mellow is the background music
She is tired of boondoggle. Cacophony
Of the Guests. Bright are the Christmas lights.
When had the Christmases became for the bourgeise
Champagne is what Christ would disapprove of.
She is sure. Quid pro Quo?
Christ was a socialist
No longer can she feign Elan for these capitalist festivities
But the Turkey is well cooked
Tinsels and presents make her children ecstatic
More mulled wine, anyone?