Tilt

Bars, lies, and pot pies
It’s the holidays again
Mine, yours, and backdoor goodbyes
Here come the ghost, the turkey, and the saint not thin
‘Cept their Yule logs are rotting
From last year’s exhusting
False fest of nothings
Imploding pumpkins and overgrown stuffings
Your presence will be sorely missed
A $25 invisible tree will mark the spot
No needles to mark the spot
Our presents won’t mark the spot
Only bad memories, confusion, and debt.

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