'Twuzz the night before … well, never mind. Anyway …

Mr. S. took his Prozac, then slouched for the day,
(Psychotic, neurotic, chaotic I'd say).
And the elves at the pole,
Felt frazzled and old,
As they sidled up to the sleigh.

The time for the annual flight was at hand.

The reindeer had brought him an antlered mandate,
"You're a hard man to fly – Take off some weight.
You've gotten so round,
We can't leave the ground,
We're reindeer not Clydesdales, okay?"

Inspired by Amway positivism and Herbalife.

Mr. S was a victim of manic depression.
He couldn't lose weight, he had an obsession.
He ate and he ate,
Till his size 58,
In the snow made an awful impression.

Mr. S. wasn't feeling great about himself.

"Now Dancer, now Dasher, now Prancer, now Vixen,
Now Comet, now Cupid, now Donder, and Blitzen,
I know I've grown wide,
But you know how I've tried.
I keep appetite suppressants in my mittens."

Old 75-watt, halogen-nose spoke up,

"We respect your right to be obese and jolly,
But face it! You're heavy! Good golly, miss Molly!
Find some reduction,
Some grand liposuction,
Or work out of taxis and trolleys."

The give-away guy didn't need this antlered insurrection.

Ashamed he'd become such a red hunk of freight,
Like those he left gifts for, he stayed up too late.
They were folks without peace,
All eggnog obese;
All charge-card psychotics with weight.

It was worse than last year, he couldn't see his boots!

Big Red looked down at his jolly, round belly,
That shook when he laughed like a bowl full of Jelly,
He'd just jumped the track,
Gotten clear out of whack,
Gulping Prozac and watching the Telly.

He had one old evangelistic elf named Finney.

This KJV elf could see he was blue,
And said, "Peace, Mr. S? Here's what to do:
Here, take the old Book,
And have a good look,
At the Gospel of Luke, chapter two."

Mr. S was clearly offended and replied,

"The North Pole is still a much better address,
Than Bethlehem for getting one's name in the press.
Bethlehem's old,
And lags in the polls.
No Luke Two for the great Mr. S."

Soon he hitched up his 58 britches!
Everybody in the West got lots of presents.

The sleigh like a December comet was hurled,
Leaving huge loads in the homes of rich boys and girls.
Still it flew wide around those lands that were bleak,
Where overweight people are very unique,
Ignoring the poor of the third and fourth worlds.

But Christmas sells better when you don't think about poor little places like Bethlehem.

    About the Author

  • Calvin Miller