And to those who say there is no romance in Christmas ... I wrote this poem....
He laid her on the table. So white and clean and bare.
His forehead wet with beads of sweat, he rubbed her here and there.
He touched her neck and then her breast, then drooling, felt her thigh.
The slit was wet and all was set,He gave a joyous cry.
The hole was wide...he looked inside. All was dark and murky.
He rubbed his hands and stretched his arms And then he stuffed the turkey.