A Christmas Poem

'Twas the night before Christmas,

and all through the house,

little puggies were snoring,

even pug Mamma's spouse

.

The stockings were hung

 by the chimney with care,

We were sniffing for liver treats,

soon to be there.

The pugs we were nestled,

all snug in our (the parents) bed,

while visions of pizza crusts

danced in our heads.

And I in my memory foam, fleece blanket having, hypoallergenic comforter topped bed,

and the rest on the edge,

had just settled in,

hope they don't fall of the bed.

When down on the floor

there arose such a clatter,

Sluggy B had to poop,

right now? What's the matter?

Away to the back door

they flew like a flash,

the last thing they wanted,

poo between their toes mashed.

The moon on the breast

 of the new fallen snow,

Carry me Dad

so my feet won't get cold.

When what to our wondering eyes did appear,

but a long and tall poop stick,

Sluggy B left it there.

With a little red cap

this poop long and lanky,

we knew in a moment,

must be Mr Hanky.

Surrounded by poop smears

that boy sure could go,

then all of a sudden,

it said Howdy Ho!

As safety cones* under the bed we do find

when met with the Dyson, they are gone with the wind.

As you read through this poem,

with reference to poo,

my Grammy won't like it

what's a Wilma to do?

So then after tinkling,

kicked the leaves and they flew.

Back up to my warm bed,

before Mommy hits snooze.

As I mashed down the covers,

and was turning around,

on the bed with his Mommy

little Sluggo was found.

He was dressed all in fur

from his head to his tail,

he's a pug for dog's sake,

he will shed without fail.

A bundle of lambies

 he had flung on the bed,

he looked like a CEO

about to chop heads.

His eyes they were crooked,

his tail oh so curly,

his ears felt like velvet,

he does act quite girly.

His furrowed brow,

so deep are his wrinkles,

to look you might think,

that his nose is all crinkled.

The stump of a lamb

he held tight in his jaw,

his mouth all around it,

just a head's all I saw.

He had long legs

 a neck like a giraffe,

loves his people, not food

he's no pug I would laugh.

Not chubby, not plump,

a skittish young elf

I love him though, a lot,

in spite of myself.

with a wink of his eye,

he lay down his head,

right next to his Mommy,

she had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word,

and he went straight to sleep,

every move that Mom made,

yet closer he'd creep.

And then lying beside her,

earlier at her feet,

was little Miss Brigitte,

some call her Britte.

But I heard Britte exclaim

as she rode to her feet,

one thing about me,

I like to eat shitte!

Merry Christmas all you little beasts!

We hope you and your families spend a joyous day together with the one's you love!

I know we will.

* note from Mom. Safety cones refer to little petrified poop nuggets that Wilma used to like to hide under the bed for us to find.