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I was looking forward to the big surprise.
My daughter had called to say it was a prize.
We ran to the porch before the big demise.
Because we have a puppy who chews everything that hits his eyes.

What is it? What is it? My husband asked with glee.
I said wait just a second. There is a bunch of tape as you can see.
It was not the gift we had been waiting for from our daughter Vee.
It was a mop head, which had been sent as a replacement for free.

We opened every Amazon box with relish that week.
But alas, the big reveal never appeared with even a peek. 
It was a fruitcake, our daughter said with a squeak. 
We looked at Buddy, our dog, whose language is Greek.

You do not suppose he devoured it, I asked my husband Fred. 
He would not eat a fruitcake, no one likes them, Fred said.
And he could not open the tin, right? I asked. Buddy’s face was red.
We found the tin later, in pieces, laid up in back of the shed.

There was not a bit of fruitcake left for the mice or the raccoons.
So to all those who use fruitcake as a label for crazies and loons.
I have just one thing to say. Here are your large silver spoons.
I shall order you some fruitcakes, you silly Christmas loving goons.

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