THE BORN LESAR

This may be the best poetry you've ever read

For reasons I cannot remember now (probably because of a clot of amyloid protein cells in my brain synopses, although it could be blunt force trauma to the skull, too, I suppose) I did not pen a collection of Christmas poetry in 2020. My bad. I apologize. Hope you were able to muddle through with other holiday pleasures like family bonding, the joy of giving, and thickly frosted cut-out cookies shaped like angels. Yeah, I like those, too. Though they make me gassy. Just sayin.' Well, rest assured, I'm not gonna' disappoint you two years in a row. For Christmas 2021, I'm back with a selection of sonnets and ballads that will make your heart ache, your eyes water, and your nose leak, all at once. Yeah, I know, those are symptoms of COVID, too, so run down to the clinic and get tested, if you must. I'll wait. And just one more note in this painful comparison of my poetry to a pandemic -- there ain't no immunization against what you're about to read. You can't stop it. You can only turn the page to see who got a speeding ticket.

And we're off. The prices they are risin', like a star up in the sky.

What I'm payin' for my gifts this year, really is quite high.

So when you open my present this year, don't expect to scream and holler.

'Cuz I plucked it from the bargain bin, down at the Family Dollar.

I know, I know, kinda grabs you right by the throat and squeezes, doesn't it? Just get a drink of water. You're gonna' wanna' be well-hydrated for what's next.

I was gonna' buy you a gift card for your favorite place to eat.

But then it suddenly dawned on me, why not just give you meat?

So I dug down in my freezer to search for the finest cut, of course.

But it wasn't labeled very clearly, so there's a decent chance it's horse.

You'll notice now that I've established a theme here, of me being as chincy and cheap as possible in my gift-giving. That's what we famous bards do, see, we find a topical thread and sew it through all of our works. Emily Dickinson, she liked to write about immortality. Walt Whitman was into realism. I go for holiday schmaltz.

I spent way too much On that gift you so wanted So I took it back That there, folks, is a haiku, and a right purty one, too. It not only precisely follows the classic 17-syllable pattern, yet clearly expresses the notion that I'm not just a Scrooge, but a lout. Sometimes it takes people five minutes with me to figure that out.

You see that? I don't even have to try.

My poems are gifts People look forward to them Like bad kidney stones That's haiku, times two, just for you.

You know, I really don't get paid enough, for such high-quality stuff.

On to a limerick, 'cuz there's no law against it that I can find.

I started out with a budget, But soon was just forced to fudge it.

My cash level was low, Quite dangerously so, Bankrupt is how you might judge it.

Just for the record, neither Robert Frost nor John Keats ever came close to pullin' off the 'budget-fudge it-judge it' rhyme line. Chickens.

My grandma she wanted a locket, To get photos out of her pocket, So I found one that's nice, But then noticed the price. And then went on e-Bay to hock it.

I've always said, 'Nothing's too good for Granny, as long is it's under $12.' I once bought her a sweater that cost like $40, and said, 'Here, Grams, hope you make it another four years, because that's the next time I'm gonna' get you anything.' Greedy old bird. Darned if she didn't hang on.

Next we're going to try a little poetry technique known as enjabment. I know, sounds like something your urologist would use to get a prostate biopsy sample, but work with me here.

My present wrapped as pretty as a flower Anxious with anticipation; you open it For cryin' out loud, a $2 lottery ticket?

Enjabment, for those of you don't get to see professional poetry like this very often, is when the writer unexpectedly extends a phrase past what would normally be the end of a line, as I did with the semicolon here. It's a trick often used to put emphasis on unexpected poetic beats, but I did it here to distract your mind from the realization that my rhymes are just senseless gibberish. It worked, didn't it? What's that. You want more limericks? Cripes, just hold on a little. I'm trying to please fans of all styles here. I mean, they don't call me Dean Shakespeare for nothing. Well, actually, they don't call me that at all, but you get the point. So this next piece is an acrostic poem, in which the first letter of each line spells out a word, which is the theme. Once in a college writing class, I penned an acrostic that spelled out 'Poetry sucks.' The professor didn't think it was all that clever. She wrote one back that spelled 'You flunk.' Geez, you know, people are so sensitive nowadays.

Gift -buying, credit card bills, interest.

Really, I wish I could just skip it. I actually like the receiving part better. Not that I return everything for cash. Cuz I understand the spirit of the season. However, I'm just not all that generous. But I do give you these poems most every year, for no extra charge other than your annual subscription. I will expect royalty checks when they're published in a 'Classic Works of the All-Time Great Poets' anthology, but until then, you can share them with loved ones, or unloved ones too, I suppose. What do I care?

The night was silent Just like the song said it would be Then Grandma farted.

Sorry, I probably should have just stopped.