where the writers are
Elven Days of Christmas

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.”

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