The first day after Christmas my true love and I had a fight, and so I chopped the pear tree down and burned it just for spite. Then with a single cartridge, I shot that blasted partridge. The one my true love gave to me.
The second day after Christmas, I pulled on the old rubber gloves, and very gently wrung the necks of both the turtle doves. The ones my true love stupidly gave to me.
The third day after Christmas, my mother caught the croup; I had to use the three Frech hens to make some chicken soup. The four calling birds were a big mistake, for their language was obscene. The five gold rings were completely fake and they turned my fingers green.
The sixth day after Christmas, the six laying geese wouldn't lay, I gave the whole darn gaggle to the A.S.P.C.A. On the seventh day what a mess I found, all seven of the swimming swans had drowned. The exact same ones my supposed true love gave to me.
The eighth day after Christmas, before they could suspect, I bundled up the eight maids a milking, nine pipers piping, ten ladies dancing, 'leven lords a leaping, twelve drummers drumming and sent them back, COD.
And so I wrote like a dove, "We are through, my not quite true love." And I said in so many words, "Furthermore, your Christmas gifts were for the birds!"
Adapted from The Twelve Days After Christmas, reportedly written by Jeannie West on December 22, 1992.
Posted by Corey at December 24, 2004 2:29 PM