A Christmas Poem

I always liked the way Steve Miller pronounced the word "poem" in his song, "Jungle Love." He made it sound like, "foam." Then again, I like to announce at any fast food restaurant that I have a "coupon," pronouncing it with the accent on the first syllable, ala Ron White.

If anybody has an idea for a title for this piece, please let me know. I'd like to steal it when I publish this elsewhere.

Let us begin.

I saw it on the shelf in back. I saw it resting there.
A tin, just right, for me to hide a gift that I would share.
I went to lift it - an easy task - or so I thought t'would be.
To my surprise it had some heft, which seemed quite strange to me.

I'm fairly certain that I would know what all these shelves might hold
But now I've come across this box holding secrets yet untold.
I set it on the countertop and steeled my nerves somewhat.
I didn't want a childish prank to knock me on my butt.

Anticipation gripped my soul. I took hold of the top.
With quivering hands I lifted it and thought my heart would stop.
I saw it lying there inside and did a double take
For I'd uncovered what must have been the very first fruit cake.

No green or red jewel-colored fruits shone from its top or side.
In their place were onyx stones stuck in its flagstone hide.
A hideous amalgamation that spoke of an insane mind.
Some baker gone stark raving mad could only conceive this find.

The EPA must never know, nor even the local police,
For this is a toxic weapon, my friend. Could I offer you a piece?

© 2006 Michael Wicinski