Yet we bundle it into festive wreaths,
cursing all the way,
we staple it to our doortops
and wire it onto sleighs,
we send long-suffering spouses out
to snip a few more fronds,
administering mercurochrome
after they respond.

Nothing quite as festive
as a freshly infected scratch,
nothing ‘ll revive a flagging faith
like visiting the old holly patch.
Nobody ever said such things
and nobody ever will,
why, then, do we still insist
upon engaging as its shill?

We might wish a Merry Christmas
well into the following year,
but holly keeps on giving her gifts,
and for decades perseveres.
Go ahead and try to dispose
of it, just go ahead and try,
you’ll piss off every garbage man,
that’s no lie!

‘Cause holly leaves live on after life,
getting meaner and meaner with age,
they tangle up in the spirea hedge,
aching to re-engage,
and they’ll drive themselves right clean through
even brand new leather gloves;
this is one of God’s creations
no gardener ever loved.

So why, I wonder?
who chose this ungodly creation
to signify some of the spirit
of God’s favorite season?
It’s certainly green,
I’ll give you that,
Beyond that, I’m flat.

But we deck the halls,
whatever THAT means,
then fa-la-la-la-la our fool heads off,
more serious than we seem.
We even feel Olde Englishy
when holly shows her color,
festive, though our ancestors
fought to divorce that Mother.

Sherlock Homes might have understood
the mystery of this seasonal,
and he could doubtless provide us a story line
we would find entirely plausible,
but we’re here today,
he’s long gone,
unlike whatever holly he might have investigated:
it wounds on.

Whatever the reason, ‘tiz once again that season,
so we might at least feign jolly.
Just watch yourself whenever you happen upon
any errant sprig of holly.
Do not consume her festive fruit
or think you might be cleverer,
she’ll quickly convince you you’re the dunce
if you aren’t already deaderer.

Amen.

Have A Holly, Jolly Christmas!

©2012 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: Christmas Holly