Their ears point up because they don’t point down
And because they disagree with gravity
And other heavy matters.
With eleven days to go
With the big twinkly show
They turn off the snow
And pack up their troubles in glittering boxes.
The strike is on
And the big man in red is left alone
With too much work to do in not enough time
After neglecting to pay his workers
For well over two thousand years.
They hop into their little spaceships
And zip zap ziggity zag back to their homes
On Pluto to get ready for their final migration.
“Farewell to Xmess
No more fuss no fess
We’re no longer your guests.”