The only thing I want for Christmas this year
Is an idea, one that doesn’t crack under pressure
Or insist on its originality, like 50 Shades to an era
Raised on bootlegged copies of the Old Testament.

Holidays are overrated but just this once, Santa,
Bring me a body more intangible than yourself
That can stir up the kind of emotion that adults
Would lie to their children for. It’s torture, the way
Few words sound before they join the tongue,

The way some names should never be spoken.
You can wrap a gift in a hundred different skins but
If it’s still fragile enough to swallow, snort or smoke,
Then Santa, I insist you hold onto it this year.