Christmas At Its Wrongest

Christmas at its wrongest Around masquerade-watching men mill, All of them like church -avoiding Jill And all over again Christmas they kill; The venue, a valley that hates every hill, Shadows of death, dangling its bill And there the family of Mr Gil Also Chooses to mill, As yearly defender of its shameless thrill; On this day, no half acre to till: A family spiritually at a standstill And ever a marketer of its sleeping pill... At some eatery I’m still studying my bill And in strides fire-selling Cecil To equally order a dish and eat his fill But masks further watch from a window with sill... Christmas, no doubt , at its wrongest Masquerade, not Christ, the Guest!