I sealed them in their envelopes, but left them all unsigned.
And so I had to open them; the envelopes were spoiled.
Then fruitcake crumbs spilled over them, and thus the cards were soiled.
Going out to buy some more, I slipped upon the ice,
and cracked my funny bone so hard it needed quite a splice.
The dollar store was out of cards that showed the proper cheer,
(besides, the envelopes were cheap -- refusing to adhere)
I rummaged in my dresser till I found some old ones that
didn't look too dog-eared and could still be pressed down flat.
A dab of Wite-Out did the trick -- they were as good as new.
But then I started sneezing and I came down with the flu!
The agony and runny nose cannot here be described;
the doctor was a slacker and just Tylenol prescribed.
I lay in bed for days and days, subsisting on thin soup,
ignoring all my duties like a blasted nincompoop.
And when I had recovered I discovered amidst cramps
that I had gone and run completely out of postage stamps.
The Post Office was frantic, and the line ran out the door.
The stamp machine was broken (OMG -- can there be more?)
The supermarket sold me stamps -- I bought some discount meat,
and spent the night regretting it upon my toilet seat.
At last the cards were good to go, but one of Trump's lackeys
hauled me in for questioning about 'the strawberries'.
And if you're not familiar with that literary trope,
Merry Christmas anyways from this here misanthrope.
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