Santa Claus is coming...and he’s pissed

Santa Claus is coming and he isn't feeling well.
Mrs. Claus has menopause and makes his life a hell.
Yesterday, he gave up smoking, and those just begin the list!
Suffice to say that, 'tis the season to be jolly"—but he's pissed!

Santa knows what you are thinking though your walls be made of lead.
He has super x-ray vision and he sees in infra-red.
By new miracles of science he can see inside your head:
Every dirty thought, transmitted by the elves beneath your bed.

Santa's on a fat-free diet and his shorts have too much starch;
He's been having nightmares lately, so he hasn't slept since March;
Rudolph learned his nose was cancerous, so he slit his reindeer wrists,
So, they've canceled his insurance and now Santa Claus is pissed!

Santa knows when you are sleeping, and he knows when you’re awake,
And he knows who you’ve been sleeping with, and knows what drugs you take,
And he keeps a list of Communists who say that he’s a fake;
His elves have infiltrated Keebler, so be good for goodness’ sake!

Santa Claus is coming on a sleigh that's built for speed!
All his reindeer shoot up steroids and snort cocaine with their feed.
There's no way you can outrun them; it’s pointless to resist.
Godzilla looks like Tinker Bell when Santa Claus is pissed.

Fur Storm

A stoat during Winter’s an ermine.
An ermine in Summer’s a stoat.
If it springs and you fall, then it’s vermin
A damned weasel affixed to your throat!

We’re supposed to use hues to determine—

By its brown or white fur—how to vote;
But I say if teeth jut when it’s squirmin’,
It’s a weasel—until it’s a coat.

Some find a fur-garment prestigious,
Think the varmint looks fine on their form;
Others hold that to harm it’s egregious;
Fur as fashion’s a fatuous norm!

Yet when breezes or blizzards besiege us,
It’s the one who wears white who’s kept warm.
While brown fur is an anti-rain aegis.
Is there any escape from this storm?

A challenge poem incorporating 5 random words: AEGIS, ERMINE, FATUOUS, JUT, KEPT

Stopping by a Feral Lab on a Snowy Evening*

Whose dog this is, I’d have to guess.
No tags that I can see, unless
They’re camouflaged by fur and muck.
--It’s possible he’s ownerless.

To be a feral dog must suck
Surviving by his wits and luck
On vermin meals and scavenged snacks
While dodging the dog-catcher’s truck.

If he lets his attention lapse
He’ll end up in the catcher’s traps
Then be imprisoned. Or, worse fate,
Run over by by a car, perhaps.

I’d like a dog, at any rate.
Maybe he’d like to be my mate.
I’ll offer him this bone as bait.
I’ll offer him this bone as bait.

*(with apologies to Robert Frost)

Two Seers on a Pier

Two seers on a pier by the sea
Said let us peer to foresee what will be.
It appears, said one peer,
Though your future is clear,
Now and here, it stills sears when you pee.

The Burial of Br'er Bear

Br’er Boar, said “Br’er Bear was our peer,
“But to bear him we barely have power.
“If we borrowed a barrow or bier,
“We could bury him under a bower.
“But beware, there are bristle burrs near
“And blackberry briars are in flower.
“What a bore. Let’s just bury him here.
“Then be back to our beers in an hour."

If The Press Secretary Should Yawn

If the Press Secretary should yawn
As news correspondents look on,
They should weigh before judging
That when facts need fudging
She's up in the crack of Don.

A Ladder to the Former

A sinner in Hell built a ladder,
High enough to complain to his Former.
 Said the former to the latter,
“I could have been badder.”
“Well, Hell,” said his Former, “could be warmer!”