‘Twas Midday Before Christmas

‘Twas midday before Christmas and Lachlan MacLinner,

Was out hunting game for his family’s dinner.

Plaid stockings clung tight to his legs with great care,

Whilst, not one, but two hats, hid his red, thinning hair.

At his kilt did the cruel winter wind bite and tear,

Making prunes of a norm’ly more pendulous pair.

And though the thick woodland lent cloak to his prey,

Onward still Lachlan trudged; He could spare no delay.

For his wife, Osla Jean, was an ill-tempered shrew,

Like a banshee she’d shriek till her face would turn blue,

So a-hunting he’d go if it took him all night,

If he brought home no supper, his name would be shite.

But just then, from the brush, a slight stirring arose,

Tightly holding his breath, as he stared, Lachlan froze,

For his eyes had befallen a supple young ewe,

“Why, this cloven hoofed beauty will certainly do!”


At his favorite bludgeoning cudgel, he knuckled,

Then fondled the handle and gleefully chuckled,

And gently knelt down in a Bonnie Bloom bed,

As visions of lamb chops danced ‘round in his head.

When at once something happened he couldn’t explain,

Sharply, synapses fired and popped in his brain,

And where once stood his prized, would-be, holiday meal,

Bore abruptly to he, then a different appeal.

His face became flushed and his hands became clammy,

His eyes blurred and swam as he ogled the lammy

Who understood well what would soon come to pass,

As their gaze met, at last, in the tall Highland grass.

Well, the sheep barely noticed his billy club clatter

To the ground with a pound, matting flowers much flatter.

Then “fergive me,” he plead to the stars up above,

“But blessin’ me bagpipes, I think I’m in love.”

So he lifted his kilt, and he tendered his tool,

Grabbed a fistful and pulled on the delicate wool,

Well-aware, midst the whirlwind of shearling and plaid

Of the best rack of lamb that he ever had had.

Then he shivered and grunted, and sighed and he coughed,

As he loosened his grip on her coat ever soft.

And mopping his brow from beneath his two hats,

Lachlan laughed, “Jaysus Christ, I ‘bout soiled me spats!”


Then he struck up a match on a thick Birnam Oak,

Drawing in a deep breath for to light up his smoke.

But his lighthearted mood quickly faded to dark,

And he swung at the oak landing blows in the bark.

Wincing, he cradled his bloodied left hand,

His tortured lament echoed out through the land,

“I have never known love like I’ve felt for this flower,”

“I cannae go home, I just dooon’t have the power!”

So he stood in the snowbank, a Scotsman divided,

Projecting each posture his pickle provided,

Though whatever position he chose to pursue,

Would be equally horrid a hullabaloo.


When, famished and frozen, and falling apart,

He felt a soft tickle that warmed his cold heart.

As the lamb licked his raw, wounded hand, Lachlan knew

Precisely just that which he needed to do.

The townsfolk flocked ‘round as he made his return,

“Lachlan’s braved through the storm!” the mob audibly churned.

“Were it cold old enough fer ye?” dogged Dougal Dundeather.

“Oh, shut it, ye bawbag,‘tis fine Scottish weather.”

Then from over his shoulder he hoisted his prize,

And brought it down softly before widened eyes.

“Ye doss lucky bas.” Hamish Henderson said,

“Tha’s a foin piece o’ mutton there, Lachy m’lad.”


“But tell me, MacLinner, just how did ye foind,

Such a right, bonnie beast in the snow?” Hamish pined.

Then Lachlan MacLinner grinned sheepishly, sighing,

And shrugging he answered “Oh, quite satisfying.”



When Alice watched space shuttles launch on TV,

There would pool in her panties a puddle.

As she gobbled up popsicles, weakened of knee,

Would her fair, freckled skin flush and ruddle.

‘Neath her pillow went pickles and cold cobs of corn,

Troves of Twinkies amassed ‘mongst her socks,

Dismayed neighbors watched on, once, as Alice, one morn,

Chased the Weinermobile fifteen blocks.

Funk & Wagnalls defines “Phallophilia” as

“A neurosis (one, often erotic)

Characterized by compulsions,” it says,

“Which beleaguer the smitten psychotic.”

Evidently, those stricken are apt to display

(As established in case study “Alice”)

“A proclivity toward,” the text goes on to say,

“That which holds or pertains to the phallus.”

Well, the Washington Monument made her toes curl,

Pisa’s Tower too, Lean, long, and powerful.

“Oh, had these erections but arms,” gushed the girl,

Dreaming how the two might Eiffel Tower her.


So, although the cigar on which Freud’s claim lay base,

Was, in fact, often just a cigar,

It would seem that we deem this, in Alice’s case,

A fallacious notion thus far.

Boners on Busses

I awoke with a start, when ahead the bus forged

Down the street when I noticed, aghast,

That my member, with blood, was now fully engorged,

And a raging hard-on had amassed.

Try as I might to diminish the tent

In my trousers with unsexy thoughts,

The recalcitrant ‘rection refused to relent,

And the bus had gone well past my stop.

Sighing surrender, I leered at my lap,

“It appears that you’ve won this round, mate.”

Defeated, I drifted back into my nap,

Distant throbbings began to abate.

When again I awoke to my bus seat, ensconced,

Though my lap-dragon lay in remission,

Other patrons had moved far away in response

To the diesel, nocturnal emissions.

Night Of The Loving Dead

“It’s over” she croaked, choking back sallow tears,

To her lover, aquiver with dread,

“Your perversions have worsened, affirming my fears,

I’ll enable you no further, Ned.”

Brushing her cheek with his clammy, grey hands,

Gently stroking her dull, thinning hair,

Which promptly fell out into wet, moldered strands,

As his eyes met her cold, lifeless stare.

“Since last spring, when I killed you, increasingly clear

Has the answer become, sweet Amelia,

For, now that I, too, am dead, technically, dear,

It appears we’ve cured my necrophilia.”

When they kissed, his thin lips fell off into her teeth,

And her jawbone dislodged from her head,

But ’twas plain as the maggots a-wriggling beneath,

Long their love would live on — though undead.

Tube Socks


Moldy tennis balls firmly affixed to the feet

Of his walker, he slithered, unseen.

Then each locker, of socks, did he feebly deplete,

As he loosened his worn gaberdine.


Confirming the corridor’s coast to be clear,

He inhaled deeply into the pile,

Down his pants, he then made a stray sock disappear,

And relieved himself into the argyle.


Shuddering, he clutched at his musty caché,

Gnarled fingers caressing each hem,

Drawing, then, one last breath of stale cotton so grey,

Did he, one by one, gently replaced them.


A Midwinter Night’s Dream

An immaculate blanket, pristine, cold and bright,

Surrounded it thoughtlessly, airy and light,

The butterscotch blemish besmirching the white,

Lay aloof and alone, all but blind to its blight.

Cast away, strewn aside, sat the sad swarthy slight,

For the bear that had passed it had passed out of sight,

Like a whistling kettle, it steamed in the night,

Imposing its stink with profound, pungent might.

The Pigeon Shit Predicament


As Pierre mixed the rat poison into the rice,

His thin lips formed a hideous grin,

“Those pestiferous pigeons will soon pay the price,”

Laughed he over his toxic concoction.


But uncooked was the rice, when the pigeons chowed down,

So not a one got very far,

And rather than shit,  to his horror he found,

Chunks of bird guts bespeckled his car.