I drafted this poem for a little contest sponsored by a local literary group.  Thought it would be fun to share as the holidays approach. They say writers write from personal experience.  Well, here's my contribution to that belief (with a bit of embellishment along the way). Enjoy!

Slip out of bed,

tipity-toe.

Clock signals three.

Door opens slow.

 

Rustles I hear,

wrapping paper perhaps?

Santa’s come I am certain,

while the family naps.

 

Slink down the stairs,

grip on the rail,

stub my big toe,

stifle a wail.

 

Peer in gap between wall

and thin wooden slat.

Sure enough someone’s there,

all jolly and fat.

 

My fists clench in joy,

at his round silhouette.

His hands arrange gifts.

How many’d I get?

 

He bends over once more,

takes one step back,

and that’s when I see it--

a Santa butt-crack.

 

His red underwear

is distinctively clear.

I think this confusing,

puzzling, and queer.

 

Then lifting his leg,

he let’s loose flatulence,

which he wafts with his hand.

The most putrid of scents.

 

Who is this imposter,

this phony, this fraud?

My mouth it hangs open,

rounded and broad.

 

Santa lays the last gift

beneath our fake tree.

He turns his whole body,

and now faces me.

 

To learn Santa’s fake

is traumatic enough

without partial nudity,

bodily functions, and stuff.

 

But to learn of no Claus

at age six is so sad

when the red-underweared, farter

‘neath the tree is your Dad.

~Scott

"Live, Learn, Teach"

www.micedonttastelikechicken.com