For the sleaze that drools,
at the doll that strips,
such a thing above,
is true script,
but when it comes to hold,
the hand in peace,
such hosiery,
should not release,
for at Christmas,
or at any time,
to rip our fabric,
is true crime,
as sheep who choose,
to mangle words,
un-weave the warmth,
make up the curbs,
a broken moral,
is a hole in the stocking,
see all the lies,
that seem to be flocking,
evolution halts,
we are the killers,
composing the hits,
the true floor fillers,
thus, when you feel inside,
your Yuletide sock,
you may realise that,
we’re out of stock,
but in the corner,
that is still sewn,
you may find,
what needs to be shown,
then when displayed,
shamed is the flesh,
that has hid too long,
behind the mesh,
both client and whore,
retune their choice,
to murder the norm,
with angelic voice,
is the thought that lurks,
within the sheer,
but we’ll continue to err,
throughout the year,
to repeat our roles,
of pauper and prince,
as it’s deeds that count,
when we leave footprints.