The HyperTexts
The Best Heretical Christmas Poems
These are the best heretical Christmas poems of all time, or at least the best
that I've found so far in my extensive readings.
My top ten heretical Christmas poets are W. H. Auden, Hilaire Belloc, William
Blake, e. e. cummings, Thomas
Hardy, A. E. Housman, Christina Rossetti, Dr. Seuss, William
Shakespeare and Sara Teasdale.
According to a poll conducted by the Rev. Marcus Walker to determine the most
“egregious/heretical line” in the Christmas carol canon, the most heretical
lines in Christmas hymns are:
• (8%) Christmas “defaces” all other times, including Easter. (“God Rest Ye
Merry Gentlemen”)
• (18%) Bethlehem lay carpeted in snow. This, of course, calls into doubt the
shepherds watching their flocks by night. (“In the Bleak Midwinter”)
• (23%) More heresy was detected in “veiled in flesh the Godhead see.” This line was
accused of the heresy of Monophysitism: that Jesus acquired a divine nature
after the incarnation. (“Hark! the Herald Angels Sing”)
• (51%) The line most objected to was “no crying he makes.” (“Away in a Manger”)
This line was accused of the heresy of Docetism: that Jesus’s body was an
illusion, not human. (“Hark! the Herald Angels Sing”)
compiled by Michael R. Burch
Christmas: 1924
by Thomas Hardy
'Peace upon earth!' was said. We sing it,
And pay a million priests to bring it.
After two thousand years of mass
We've got as far as poison-gas.
"Lines for a Christmas Card" from the novel The Four Men
by Hilaire Belloc
May all good fellows that here agree
Drink Audit Ale in heaven with me.
And may all my enemies go to hell!
Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!
May all my enemies go to hell!
Noel! Noel!
Christmas Trivia: The Puritan Oliver Cromwell banned Christmas carols
during the English Reformation. What a Scrooge!
What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch
What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to kill and plunder?
For he'll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!
When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,
when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?
A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch
Santa Claus,
for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy ...
just ... Santa, please,
I’m on my knees! ...
please
don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!
According to orthodox Christianity, human beings who don't "believe" in
Jesus Christ as Savior will go to hell when they die. But who can "believe" in a
God who punishes human beings for not believing things that cannot be proven,
and which would make God infinitely worse than the Devil? In reality, the
biblical God and his Hebrew prophets
never mentioned a place called "hell" or any possibility of suffering after
death. If this subject interests you, please consider
There is No "Hell" in the Bible.
A Little Bell
by Ann Drysdale
A little bell, a little golden bell
A little golden Christmas-looking bell
With Santa on his sleigh, waving goodwill
While six wild reindeer rear into the sky
Making a cunning little handle.
If you take it between finger and thumb
And give it the teeniest shake, it tinkles
Like babies' laughter. Such a pretty thing
And it is all for you. Nurse gave it to you
To keep for as long as you need it.
Nurse gave the bell to you because last night
You had a paroxysm of vomiting
That made green curtains run down all four walls
And rang the "help me" bell and no-one came
Because the bell was broken.
So you cried out at the top of your voice
Begging for someone, anyone, to come;
But cries of distress on the ward at night
Are constant and for the most part ignored.
You lay ill and afraid alone.
Today I asked if something could be done
And they brought you the little golden bell.
I went back home and fetched a sleeping bag.
I will be here tonight and every night.
Because I don't believe in Santa Claus.
Christmas Eve
by R. S. Thomas
Erect capital’s arch;
decorate it with the gilt edge
of the moon. Pave the way
to it
with cheques and with credit —
it is still not high enough
for the child to pass under
who comes to us this midnight
invisible as radiation.
Easter Hymn
by A. E. Housman
If in that Syrian garden, ages slain,
You sleep, and know not you are dead in vain,
Nor even in dreams behold how dark and bright
Ascends in smoke and fire by day and night
The hate you died to quench and could but fan,
Sleep well and see no morning, son of man.
But if, the grave rent and the stone rolled by,
At the right hand of majesty on high
You sit, and sitting so remember yet
Your tears, your agony and bloody sweat,
Your cross and passion and the life you gave,
Bow hither out of heaven and see and save.
In God We Trust
by T. Merrill
Absolve yourselves, believe them saved,
Whom hungrily you brought to fare
As chance decrees, and leave to them
The fortune to which you rose heir.
Now theirs shall be the kingdom too,
This one and that, and all they hold,
All marvels present, and as well
Fresh wonders when the flesh turns cold.
All you who by blind pulse renew
The primal blessing cast in heat,
And to a season's course entrust
Frail issue weather can defeat,
Who from flung seed grew anxious too—
Deny earth feeds on them and you.
Nuns, Skating
by Ann Drysdale
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room
Because their spirits can escape beyond
The place that holds them in respectful gloom
To seek the Lord beside the frozen pond.
There He will make their laughter into bells
And turn their breath to incense. He will show
Shadows of magi on the distant hills
And flights of angels shining in the snow.
He will make rushes sing and grasses dance
To the intrusive music of their chatter,
Whispering in their ears that, just this once,
They too can walk as He did, on the water.
Oh, may the year to come be full of these
Small serendipitous epiphanies.
White Hot Christmas
by Michael R. Burch
I’m back from my jog;
it felt like summer
on Christmas Eve.
What a bummer!
Forget the sleigh, Santa,
hire a Hummer.
Willy Nilly
by Michael R. Burch
for the Demiurge aka Yahweh/Jehovah
Isn't it silly, Willy Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn't it silly, Willy Nilly?
Isn't it silly, Willy Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped—
life's a pickle, dilly.
Isn't it silly, Willy Nilly?
Isn't it silly, Willy Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you'll not act illy.
Isn't it silly, Willy Nilly?
An excerpt from "For the Time Being: A Christmas Oratorio"
by W. H. Auden
Well, so that is that. Now we must dismantle the tree,
Putting the decorations back into their cardboard boxes –
Some have got broken – and carrying them up to the attic.
The holly and the mistletoe must be taken down and burnt,
And the children got ready for school. There are enough
Left-overs to do, warmed-up, for the rest of the week –
Not that we have much appetite, having drunk such a lot,
Stayed up so late, attempted – quite unsuccessfully –
To love all of our relatives, and in general
Grossly overestimated our powers. Once again
As in previous years we have seen the actual Vision and failed
To do more than entertain it as an agreeable
Possibility, once again we have sent Him away,
Begging though to remain His disobedient servant,
The promising child who cannot keep His word for long.
The Christmas Feast is already a fading memory,
And already the mind begins to be vaguely aware
Of an unpleasant whiff of apprehension at the thought
Of Lent and Good Friday which cannot, after all, now
Be very far off. But, for the time being, here we all are,
Back in the moderate Aristotelian city
Of darning and the Eight-Fifteen, where Euclid's geometry
And Newton's mechanics would account for our experience,
And the kitchen table exists because I scrub it.
It seems to have shrunk during the holidays. The streets
Are much narrower than we remembered; we had forgotten
The office was as depressing as this. To those who have seen
The Child, however dimly, however incredulously,
The Time Being is, in a sense, the most trying time of all.
For the innocent children who whispered so excitedly
Outside the locked door where they knew the presents to be
Grew up when it opened. Now, recollecting that moment
We can repress the joy, but the guilt remains conscious;
Remembering the stable where for once in our lives
Everything became a You and nothing was an It.
Do They Know It's Christmas
lyrics by Chloe Glass
performed by Band Aid
It's Christmas time, there's no need to be afraid
At Christmas time, we let in light and we banish shade
And in our world of plenty, we can spread a smile of joy
Throw your arms around the world at Christmas time
But say a prayer ― pray for the other ones
At Christmas time
It's hard, but when you're having fun
There's a world outside your window
And it's a world of dreaded fear
Where the only water flowing is a bitter sting of tears
And the Christmas bells that ring there are the clanging chimes of doom
Well tonight thank God it's them instead of you
And there won't be snow in Africa this Christmas time
The greatest gift they'll get this year is life
Where nothing ever grows
No rain or rivers flow
Do they know it's Christmas time at all?
Here's to you
Raise your glass for everyone
Here's to them
Underneath that burning sun
Do they know it's Christmas time at all?
Feed the world
Feed the world
Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time and
Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time and
Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time and
Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time and
Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time and
Feed the world
Let them know it's Christmas time
Happy Christmas (War Is Over)
by John Lennon and Yoko Ono
So this is Christmas
And what have you done
Another year over
And a new one just begun
And so this is Christmas
I hope you have fun
The near and the dear ones
The old and the young
A very merry Christmas
And a happy New Year
Let's hope it's a good one
Without any fear
And so this is Christmas War is over
For weak and for strong If you want it
For rich and the poor ones War is over
The road is so long Now
And so happy Christmas War is over
For black and for white If you want it
For yellow and red ones War is over
Let's stop all the fight Now
A very merry Christmas
And a happy New Year
Let's hope it's a good one
Without any fear
And so this is Christmas War is over
And what have we done If you want it
Another year over War is over
And a new one just begun Now
And so happy Christmas War is over
I hope you have fun If you want it
The near and the dear one War is over
The old and the young Now
A very merry Christmas
And a happy New Year
Let's hope it's a good one
Without any fear
War is over if you want it
War is over now
Hamlet
Act I, Scene I
by William Shakespeare (1603)
BERNARDO. It was about to speak, when the cock crew.
HORATIO. And then it started, like a guilty thing
Upon a fearful summons. I have heard
The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn,
Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat
Awake the god of day; and at his warning,
Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air,
Th’ extravagant and erring spirit hies
To his confine; and of the truth herein
This present object made probation.
MARCELLUS. It faded on the crowing of the cock.
Some say that ever, ’gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long;
And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad,
The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallow’d and so gracious is the time.
HORATIO. So have I heard and do in part believe it.
But look, the morn, in russet mantle clad,
Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastward hill.
Break we our watch up; and by my advice
Let us impart what we have seen to-night
Unto young Hamlet; for, upon my life,
This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him.
The Garden Of Love
by William Blake
I laid me down upon a bank,
Where Love lay sleeping;
I heard among the rushes dank
Weeping, weeping.
Then I went to the heath and the wild,
To the thistles and thorns of the waste;
And they told me how they were beguiled,
Driven out, and compelled to the chaste.
I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen;
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.
And the gates of this Chapel were shut
And "Thou shalt not," writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore.
William Blake was a Gnostic who in his painting The Nativity had the
baby Jesus flying magically from an unconscious Mary into the arms of his aunt,
Elizabeth, who has the baby John the Baptist in her lap. The painting strongly
suggests that Jesus was not human at birth.
The Corporate Christmas Carol
by Joseph S. Salemi
God rest ye merry businessmen,
Start markups on your trash!
Remember that this holiday
Is when you rake in cash!
It saves you from those creditors
You owe from that last crash…
Oh, tidings of bottom-lines grown fat, ever so fat!
Oh, tidings of bottom-lines grown fat!
From commerce wonks in Washington
There comes this press release:
“Just keep the boobs in spending-mode
So cash flow doesn't cease!
A Christmas without splurging means
That profits won't increase…”
Oh, tidings of credit lines gone wild, ever so wild!
Oh, tidings of credit lines gone wild!
The euro's going down the tubes;
The E.U. too, en masse—
We owe some fifteen trillion bucks
That we don't have, alas!
If China calls our paper debt,
We might as well take gas…
Oh, tidings of bankruptcy and loss, ever such loss!
Oh, tidings of bankruptcy and loss!
That's why we need this frenzied rush
Of buying gone berserk!
At Christmas you must drum into
The head of every jerk
That he should spend and spend and spend
To keep us all in work…
Oh, tidings of avarice unrestrained, unrestrained!
Oh, tidings of avarice unrestrained!
How the Grinch Stole Christmas
by Dr. Seuss (the pen name of Theodore Seuss Geisel)
Every Who down in Whoville liked Christmas a lot …
But the Grinch, who lived just north of Whoville, did NOT!
The Grinch hated Christmas! The whole Christmas season!
Now, please don’t ask why. No one quite knows the reason.
It could be his head wasn’t screwed on just right.
It could be, perhaps, that his shoes were too tight.
But I think that the most likely reason of all,
May have been that his heart was two sizes too small ...
little tree
by e. e. cummings
little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower
who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly
i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don't be afraid
look the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,
put up your little arms
and i'll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy…
Christmas Past
by Carice Williams
Each Christmas I remember
The ones of long ago;
I see our mantelpiece adorned
With stockings in a row.
Each Christmas finds me dreaming
Of days that used to be,
When we hid presents here and there,
For all the family.
Each Christmas I remember
The fragrance in the air,
Of roasting turkey and mince pies
And cookies everywhere.
Each Christmas finds me longing
For Christmases now past,
And I am back in childhood
As long as memories last.
Mistletoe a Christmas
by Walter de la Mare
Sitting under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
One last candle burning low,
All the sleepy dancers gone,
Just one candle burning on,
Shadows lurking everywhere:
Some one came, and kissed me there.
Tired I was; my head would go
Nodding under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
No footsteps came, no voice, but only,
Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,
Stooped in the still and shadowy air
Lips unseen—and kissed me there.
A Christmas Carol: In the Bleak Midwinter
by Christina Rossetti
In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.
Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak midwinter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty
Jesus Christ.
Enough for Him, whom cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.
Angels and archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air;
But only His mother
In her maiden bliss
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.
What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a Wise Man
I would do my part,—
Yet what I can I give Him,
Give my heart.
Christmas Carol
by Sara Teasdale
The kings they came from out the south,
All dressed in ermine fine;
They bore Him gold and chrysoprase,
And gifts of precious wine.
The shepherds came from out the north,
Their coats were brown and old;
They brought Him little new-born lambs—
They had not any gold.
The wise men came from out the east,
And they were wrapped in white;
The star that led them all the way
Did glorify the night.
The angels came from heaven high,
And they were clad with wings;
And lo, they brought a joyful song
The host of heaven sings.
The kings they knocked upon the door,
The wise men entered in,
The shepherds followed after them
To hear the song begin.
The angels sang through all the night
Until the rising sun,
But little Jesus fell asleep
Before the song was done.
I've got Jesus's face on a wallet insert
by Michael R. Burch
for the Religious Right
I've got Jesus's face on a wallet insert
and "Hell is for Queers" on the back of my shirt.
And I uphold the Law,
for Grace has a Flaw:
the Church must have someone to drag through the dirt.
I've got ten thousand reasons why Hell must exist,
and you're at the top of my fast-swelling list!
You're nothing like me,
so God must agree
and slam down the Hammer with His Loving Fist!
For what are the chances that God has a plan
to save everyone: even Boy George and Wham!?
Eternal fell torture
in Hell's pressure scorcher
will separate homo from Man.
I'm glad I'm redeemed, ecstatic you're not.
Did Christ die for sinners? Perish the thought!
The "good news" is this:
soon my Vengeance is His!,
for you're not the lost sheep He sought.
These are some additional Christmas poems of mine ...
Late Frost
by Michael R. Burch
The matters of the world like sighs intrude;
out of the darkness, windswept winter light
too frail to solve the puzzle of night’s terror
resolves the distant stars to salts: not white,
but gray, dissolving in the frigid darkness.
I stoke cooled flames and stand, perhaps revealed
as equally as gray, a faded hardness
too malleable with time to be annealed.
Light sprinkles through dull flakes, devoid of color;
which matters not. I did not think to find
a star like Bethlehem’s. I turn my collar
to trudge outside for cordwood. There, outlined
within the doorway’s arch, I see the tree
that holds its boughs aloft, as if to show
they harbor neither love, nor enmity,
but only stars: insignias I know—
false ornaments that flash, overt and bright,
but do not warm and do not really glow,
and yet somehow bring comfort, soft delight:
a rainbow glistens on new-fallen snow.
I had Robert Frost in mind when I wrote this poem, and thus the title. Frost
was fond of the word “arch,” and it’s here because of that fondness. The poem
imagines him as an old man and a skeptic, but one who never really made a
complete break from his childhood faith. The rainbow created by the “artificial
stars” was not something I had planned ... in fact, I believe I wrote that line
before I understood that the Christmas tree ornaments were creating the rainbow.
Christmas Wishes
by Michael R. Burch
My wish for you, with Christmas near,
is troubles fleeing, fleet as deer,
and peace encompassing as snow
and merriment in brilliant flow.
I wish for you, with Christ’s Eve here,
a silver moon should skies seem drear,
bright stars to light a festive sky,
a warmth caressing from on high.
I wish for you on Christmas day
a tree enchanted, festooned, gay . . .
and Christmas night, as carols play,
white candles lined in bright array.
But most of all, I wish you well,
and so much more than words can tell.
For this and every coming year,
Noel, Noel and Christmas cheer!
King of the World
by the Child Poets of Gaza, an alias of Michael R. Burch
If I were King of the World, I would make
every child free, for my people’s sake.
And once I had freed them, they’d all run and scream
back to my palace, for free ice cream!
Why are you laughing? Can’t a young king dream?
If I were King of the World, I would banish
hatred and war, and make mean men vanish.
Then, in their place, I’d bring in a circus
with lions and tigers (but they’d never hurt us!)
Why are you laughing? What else is a king’s purpose?
If I were King of the World, I would teach
the preachers to always do as they preach;
and so they could practice being of good cheer,
we’d have Christmas —and presents—every day of the year!
Why are you laughing? Some dreams do appear!
If I were King of the World, I would send
my counselors of peace to the wide world’s end ...
But all this hard dreaming is making me thirsty!
I proclaim Pink Lemonade; please bring it in a hurry!
Why are you laughing? Mom’ll make it in a flurry!
If I were King of the World, I’d declare
a year of happiness, with no despair—
only playing allowed, for my joyful subjects!
Not a toy left behind! Repair all rejects!
Why are you laughing? Surely no one objects!
If I were King of the World, I would fire
racists and bigots, with their message so dire.
And we wouldn’t build walls, to shut people out.
I would build amusement parks, have no doubt!
Why are you laughing? Should I use my clout?
If I were King of the World, I would drive
a red Ferrari, like no man alive!
But behind would be busses for my legions of friends:
we’d party like maniacs; the fun never ends!
Why are you laughing? Hop aboard! Let’s be friends!
If I were King of the World, I would make
every child blessed, for my people’s sake,
and every child safe, and every child free,
and every child happy, especially me!
Why are you laughing? Appoint me and see!
Malpractice
by Michael R. Burch
“He needs a new nose,”
Ma said, “suppose—
one that glows!”
The doc agreed
and worked with speed
on Santa’s steed.
The surgery done,
Ma told her son—
“It’s posh, and fun!”
But Rudolph wheezed
and cried and sneezed
with disbelief.
“It should’ve been red!”
the reindeer said,
pale and distraught in his hospital bed.
“Doc, what did you do?
Alas, boo-hoo!
It’s K-Mart-special chintzy blue!”
Economical Fall
by Michael R. Burch
The time to make love is autumn;
so kiss your sweethearts (if you’ve got ’em).
Seek ways to keep warm
but observe this norm:
by Christmas be sure you “forgot” ’em!
Lines Written After Misinterpreting a Christmastime Remark About
“The Holy Family”
by Michael R. Burch
Our family’s as holey as any:
we’ve nostrils and a-holes aplenty!
Yet Another Unmerry Xmas Poem
by Michael R. Burch
the Shepherds should have tended flocks
of sheep, and not become them.
the Wise Men should have used their heads:
religion numbs and dumbs them.
the Angels should have saved their praise
for saviors who can save us
from ludicrous superstitions
and Profits who deprave us.
Christmas Bliss
by Michael R. Burch
Christ I’m so happy
that Jesus is sappy
and only saves suck-ups
who praise Yahweh’s fuck-ups!
My faith in the Devil
will save me: I revel
in devout Christmas bliss,
knowing I’m his!
As long as he saves me,
though his largess depraves me
and heaven’s unfair,
what the hell do I care?
You whine: Gandhi’s not there!
Am I his au pair?
Let the chaff burn in hell,
Noel! Sweet Noel!
The Twelve Hours of Christmas
by Michael R. Burch
for a slightly yeasty Beth
On the first hour of Christmas, my true love gave to me
a stockpile of Monistat D.
On the second hour of Christmas, my true love gave to me
truckloads of Vagisil
and a stockpile of Monistat D.
On the third hour of Christmas, my true love gave to me
A & D ointment,
truckloads of Vagisil
and a stockpile of Monistat D.
On the fourth hour of Christmas, my true love gave to me
mountains of Desitin,
A & D ointment,
truckloads of Vagisil
and a stockpile of Monistat D.
On the fifth hour of Christmas, my true love gave to me
anti-fungal powder,
mountains of Desitin,
A & D ointment,
truckloads of Vagisil
and a stockpile of Monistat D.
On the sixth hour of Christmas, my true love gave to me
“something for jock itch,”
anti-fungal powder,
mountains of Desitin,
A & D ointment,
truckloads of Vagisil
and a stockpile of Monistat D.
On the seventh hour of Christmas, my true love gave to me
towers of ice packs,
“something for jock itch,”
anti-fungal powder,
mountains of Desitin,
A & D ointment,
truckloads of Vagisil
and a stockpile of Monistat D.
On the eighth hour of Christmas, my true love gave to me
extra-strength Gold Bond,
towers of ice packs,
“something for jock itch,”
anti-fungal powder,
mountains of Desitin,
A & D ointment,
truckloads of Vagisil
and a stockpile of Monistat D.
On the ninth hour of Christmas, my true love gave to me
“don’t forget the rewards points,”
extra-strength Gold Bond,
towers of ice packs,
“something for jock itch,”
anti-fungal powder,
mountains of Desitin,
A & D ointment,
truckloads of Vagisil
and a stockpile of Monistat D.
On the tenth hour of Christmas, my true love gave to me
“a fan to cool my cootchie,”
“don’t forget the rewards points,”
extra-strength Gold Bond,
towers of ice packs,
“something for jock itch,”
anti-fungal powder,
mountains of Desitin,
A & D ointment,
truckloads of Vagisil
and a stockpile of Monistat D.
On the eleventh hour of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Diflucan capsules,
“a fan to cool my cootchie,”
“don’t forget the rewards points,”
extra-strength Gold Bond,
towers of ice packs,
“something for jock itch,”
anti-fungal powder,
mountains of Desitin,
A & D ointment,
truckloads of Vagisil
and a stockpile of Monistat D.
On the twelfth hour of Christmas, my true love gave to me
this poem to cure distemper,
Diflucan capsules,
“a fan to cool my cootchie,”
“don’t forget the rewards points,”
extra-strength Gold Bond,
towers of ice packs,
“something for jock itch,”
anti-fungal powder,
mountains of Desitin,
A & D ointment,
truckloads of Vagisil
and a stockpile of Monistat D.
Gifts of the Vagi
by Michael R. Burch
for a slightly yeasty Beth
Approximately two thousand years after the Magi followed the Christmas Star to
Bethlehem, another similar miracle has taken place, filling our hearts with
renewed senses of wonder.
There are many parallels to the first event, but because all encounters with
the supernatural are unique, there are some differences too. For instance, in
the first marvel there were three wise men of Middle Eastern origins, while in
this latter-day spectacle there was just one. And rather than three gifts there
were (as the recipient of the gifts might put it herself) a “buttload.” Also,
because in biblical times man’s technology was not up to snuff for long-distance
communications, God employed a star back then, whereas this time more mundane
text messages sufficed. And finally, in the former all the gifts were gifts,
while in the latter the only free things were the reward points. But one must
never quibble with miracles and how they are accomplished, so let us concentrate
on the more wondrous aspects ...
Our story begins not with a virgin seeking shelter from the elements, but
with a vagina seeking relief from a Christmastime yeast infection. Fortunately
for the vagina’s beleaguered owner, a benevolent God had foreseen Beth’s
predicament, just as he had foreseen Mary’s. Thus he had sent a wise young man
from the ends of the earth (or, more correctly, Arizona) to rescue Beth (or,
more correctly, her cootchie). Furthermore, in his infinite wisdom God had
planned ahead by discretely making sure that man’s ability to communicate was
vastly improved. Thus in her hour of need, our heroine was able to text her
distress call to our hero. This, I maintain, was obviously part of the Divine
Plan.
To make a long, potentially painful story short, our heroine was able to make
her needs known to our hero, and he was able to miraculously deliver the Gifts
of the Vagi: extra-strength Gold Bond, ice packs, “something for jock itch,”
anti-fungal powder, Desitin, A & D ointment, Vagisil and Monistat D.
Oh, and of course, the reward points.
Now, you may opine that my “Gifts of the Vagi” doesn’t have quite the
magisterial ring of “Gifts of the Magi.” But this is merely because the letters
“magi” appear in the word “magisterial.” When discussing miracles, one must
consider results.
Well, granted, this new miracle has been unfolding a bit slowly. Certainly
more slowly than our heroine and her “Achy, Breaky Cootch” would prefer.
But God is not always about instantaneous relief! That is merely a human
preference. One must always have perfect faith in the Divine Plan. And so I am
supremely confident that, when all is said and done, according to the Will of
Heaven, our heroine’s vajayjay will be saved from its current hell!
And so for God’s sake, please have a little faith, and have a very Merry
Christmas!
Achy Breaky Cooch
by Michael R. Burch
for a slightly yeasty Beth
You can tell my cooch it makes it hard to smooch.
You can tell my crotch that it betrays.
And you can tell my pelvis it's scaring off my Elvis,
Thus ruining my loveless nights and days ...
But don't tell my cooch, my achy breaky chooch,
I'd be better off without it! It might hear
and run away offended
while weepy and distended,
and make an awful mess, I truly fear!
You can say, "Vajayjay, you make it hard to play!"
You can say, "You're as bumpy as a toad!"
You can say, "Heal faster, or we're heading for disaster!"
But don't tell my cooch to hit the road!
No don't tell my cooch, my achy breaky chooch.
I just don't think it'd understand.
It might run away offended,
all weepy and distended,
and leave this lovely girl a eunuched man.
Donald Trump Christmas Poems and Christmas Campaign Songs
Trump's Donor Song
by
Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"
(lines written after it became apparent that Trump is not
"draining the swamp" but stocking it with his crocodilian
donors and political piranha)
christmas is coming, the Trumpster's purse is flat:
please put a Billion in the Fat Cat's hat!
if you haven't got a Billion, a Hundred Mil will do.
if you haven't got a Hundred Mil, the yoke's on you!
Christmas is coming!
Tycoons are getting fat!
TRUMP says, "Let's all piss
in some beggar's hat!
Beat him to a pulp
then run him out of town
if he dares object to
My sNAZI GOLDEN CROWN.
'Cause if you're not a Christian,
hell,
nothing else will do!
But if you're just like TRUMP,
then may TRUMP bless you!
―Michael R. Burch
SANTA CLAWS is coming to town!
He sees Spics when they're sleeping
and Blacks when they're awake!
He knows that Whites are always good,
dark skin is God's mistake!
So if you're some poor orphan
with slightly darker skin,
BIG BROTHER will be WATCHING
all blacks and Mexicans!
―Michael
R. Burch
Alt-Right White Christmas
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"
Trump's dreaming of a White Christmas,
just like the ones he used to know
when black renters groveled
or lived in hovels
while he laughed a demented Ho-Ho-Ho!
Trump’s Christmas Shutdown
by Michael R. Burch
The Grinch is quite proud of his friend Trump tonight:
To see Whoville shut down? “An enormous delight!”
And old cranky Scrooge approves of Trump’s whims:
“Who the hell cares about all those dark Tiny Tims?”
Meanwhile in the Kremlin a vodka glass clinks
As a pale being smiles at his latest hijinks:
“Merry Xmas to all my AmeriKKKan friends
As the bright lights go out and democracy ends!”
Egad,
what a cad;
the Orange Heffalump
scowls when he sees
a baby bump!
Like the Grinch who stole Christmas
(but every day of the year),
The Donald eyes expectant
mothers with a leer!
―Michael R. Burch
Donald Trump Grinch McGrump actually body-shamed Kim Kardashian for having a baby bump, saying that she was "large" and ought to watch the kind of clothes she wears in public!
Related Pages:
The Best Christmas Songs of All Time,
Heretical Christmas Poems,
Dark Christmas Poems,
Trump Christmas at the White House,
Why I Am Not A Christian by Michael R. Burch
The HyperTexts