.
We got rather too terribly happy
today.
Like too many Santa’s piled high
in a sleigh.
Ate too much confetti, and too
little hay.
Even your mom wouldn’t come out
to play.
One little grin, and you all
ran away.
As if you believed we believed
you were prey.
.
As if our great pleasure in greeting
you,
And our gladness at last to be meeting
you
To ask you to dinner, entreating
you
To believe that we soon would
be seating you
At our table meant we’d be
deleting you:
As if here is where we would be
eating you.
.
As we caught the thought you were
thinking –
After sighing and gasping and
blinking –
We found ourselves gracefully sinking
Into an idea: that by steaming
you, shrinking
Your bits to a broth, and
sieving your stinking
Effluvia off, you would be
ready for drinking!
.
We got rather too terribly happy
once more
And decided that it would
amount to a bore
To discuss it but never accomplish
the chore
Of refining you into a soup we’d
adore.
So with wherewithal, wherein
and therefore
We swore: We’ll make consommé! Let it pour.
.
.
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