'I'm a good girl.' Long lashes flutter
'I... Haven't got a present yet.'
Tripping over words, you stutter.
As you worm your way into the gifter's mind
Poking with pens until you find
An atom of suspended belief
To which you cling with raptured relief
Thus pouncing upon helpless prey
Pleading. Can I, Please, Can I, May
I have this. It's all I want.
This  list, it stretches heat strings taunt
Because the Christmas gift you supposedly 'need'
Is me,  from a pit of passion to be freed
And then you deliver the parting blow
'Lots of Love,' You sign off...
And go.

On Christmas Morning I deliver
Myself
By Boxing Day
I'm back on the shelf

You possessed me,  you didn't care
Too busy writing the list for next year.