'Twas Christmas Eve and through the house.
my husband chased me, that drunken louse.
Clothes from his body, he flung here and there.
in hopes of convincing me, sex is in the air.
The children were nestled snug in each bed,
as visions of perversion danced in HIS head.
Him with his horniness, and I, needing a nap,
hoped his libido would subside with a slap.
Out the door he retreated, creating a clatter,
I sprang to see what the hell was the matter.
When what to my tired eyes should appear?
my spouse decked like a snorting reindeer.
Rutting like a stag, so lively and so quick,
I knew immediately, viagra, created that dick.
Much swifter than he, I scurried to the door,
tripping the lock, till he sobered some more.
More in rut than human he grunted his claim,
I begged, then shouted, calling him by name.
"You sex fiend, you drunk, you dirty old man,
you'd better recoil while you're able or can."
An animal fevered, before madness could vie,
he mounted the ladder, yelling a Tarzan cry.
Once on the rooftop, to the chimney he flew,
his "bag" being mating, his mate he'd screw.
Then, in a noisy scurry, I heard on the roof,
his slipping, sliding, clawing with each hoof.
I KNEW in my head his ardor was hell-bound,
so I hid in the closet, not inducing a sound.
Down the chimney he fell, I spy out the door,
as he lay there moaning, a heap on the floor.
He slowly arose, covered with ashes and soot,
dressed only in antlers and bells head to foot.
An afghan from the couch he flung on his back,
and limped like an animal attacked by the pack.
His brow was wrinkled, his eyes wild and glary,
his nose frost-bit, his cheeks purple and scary.
His quivering mouth was drawn tight like a bow,
and his full-bodied hair, matted, like a gigolo.
Bells from his bod now dangled from his cock,
and with every step, they chimed like a clock.
He had a handsome face, tight abs, no pouch,
Thighs like steel, an ass that didn't slouch.
He was a sexy looking man, but a silly dear,
So I couldn't help but come out in the clear.
With his seven inches in an intercourse grip,
my firm resolve, wavered, and began to slip.
We spoke not a word, went right to the fuck,
filled our desires, leaving nothing to luck.
Our passion flew like the course of a missile,
Then we sprang to our feet, giving a whistle.
Ere we both exclaimed on that carnaled night,
Merry Christmas to all should be such a flight.
HAPPY HOLIDAYS
Originally published December 2005 - "Naughty or Nice"