Christmas smells like this sometimes in homes of

wretched women, jealous of my mother.

Those who would be “foul defacers

of God’s handiwork.” Such “excellent grand

tyrants of the earth! They reigned in galled eyes.”

My “weeping soul.” They chase me to my grave.

Yet still, their homes do smell like this fresh pine

on days they call my blessed births their own.

They laugh, and celebrate that I, alone,

Am not with love – my loves, they stole from me.

How I resent that they exist within

My stratosphere! My world is peace and love.

Their world is strange… those cunt brained scheming hags!

They stole my Christmas cheer from me and mine.

I pine for my sweet loves, my angel babes,

each day their wretched world distorts the truth.

I am alone, an only child of two

whose love the Nazi horde deplored.

Oh faith! Christmas smells like this sometimes.