Poor Rudolph

by Natalie M. Dorfeld, PhD

WHEN I was in the third grade,
I stole gumballs from
my brother's machine,
gently cracked each and every one open,
and filled them with boogers and glue.

He then gave the contraption
to his girlfriend.

Their breakup wasn't pretty,
nor was our Christmas display,
when the ceramic reindeer inexplicitly
became decapitated
and homosexual.

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