The night of ghouls has passed,
And Santa’s on his way.
But we still have the in-between,
The feasting holiday.
It isn’t quite as frightening
As chain-saw wielding clown,
Or grandma tippling cider
In her brand new Christmas gown.
But shocks it has aplenty
As we go about our travels,
Or cook a meal for twenty
As our sanity unravels.
With family we’ll be cursed,
Around a bird in bread crumbs dressed;
We’ll give and take the worst,
All from those who know us best.
How came this wretched day to be called festive?
Who knows, for Hell itself is relative.