(X-rayed and X-rated)
has come
once more
 — a bad penny
for the mass
who welcome
the chance to score 
despite the many 
seasons crass 
spent on bum
cold and sore
and nose red, runny
(yet still trying
to keep front bold)
 — lost kittens,
still smitten,
who stand, wretch
for reasons (being mugs) 
which now are ghosts 
(and occasional dope) 
and maybe sherry
from old-school fool
 — sometimes prey, 
without a prayer
with junkies galore
on the prowl
for quick fix
fish would hook
without pause
 — far too many mugged. 
Yea, Christmas
has come,
bent and sore
 — for many
pretty pass,
but not for some — 
a locked door
for majority — 
freezing ass
the sum
total score
of fun, not sunny
(yet not crying,
in front cold)
 — frost-bitten
(sans mittens)
hands stretch
of season most bugs 
(where once were hosts 
and hope)
and making merry 
 — without a care 
’neath mistletoe
as horned owl
stole kiss, worst tricks 
in the book
 — that, too, with clause
 — a few felt bugged. 
Ah, how strange 
Christmas has become; 
’tis small change
given Santa, block’s bum
 — red suit grown old
and moth-eaten, 
progressively cold
but, strangely, unbeaten: 
still full of hope
for miracle,
each snarled “Nope” 
closer to pinnacle;
living the present
in the past,
each Christmas spent 
perhaps the last
ere the reindeer
rein to a stop
and take him clear
to North Pole, world’s top.

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