Twas the week before New Years, and all through the house
not a creature was stirring but the wife and her spouse.
Looking around at the Christmas décor,
her heart skipped a beat knowing what was in store.
The tree and the wreaths, the baubles and balls,
would have to be stored in a place far too small.
Yes, under the steps in what’s known as the cave,
was where all the boxes would go on this day.
Filled with obsession to be rid of the mess,
she called on the husband to get himself dressed.
“Get boxes!” “Get markers!” “Get bags and duct tape!”
“It’s time to get busy and put all this away!”
The husband, he hurried and tried to escape,
but the wife wouldn’t have it and stood in his way.
They went to the basement with a feeling of dread,
knowing the work load that lie just ahead.
But the day, it flew by as they worked and they packed,
and before they could blink all the boxes were stacked.
The time had now come to store it away,
and with worry and dread they peered into the cave.
It looked so much smaller; and darker it seemed,
and they knew when they finished it would bust at the seams.
As they pushed and they shoved there arose such a clatter,
they looked into the cave to see what was the matter.
The boxes were groaning, the walls wouldn’t budge,
but the husband and wife gave it one final nudge.
Having finally finished, up the stairs they took flight
when it hit them they’d forgotten to take down the lights.
It’s been said they exclaimed as they ran from the scene,
“Merry Christmas my ass, they can stay up until spring!”