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.