Twas the Month Before Khristmas (a poem)

Twas the Month Before Khristmas
(with my most profound apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)

Twas the eve of December and high time for the kard
to be shot by a pro; t’would be an ode like the Bard’s

No stockings, no light strings, no tinsel strung round,
but searing pop art would surely abound;

Only one child was nestled away from the fray;
one can only assume her father yelled ‘NAY’

A concept had settled itself in mom’s brain
it involved odes to earning and her gravy train,

As the staging was set for the kard of the year,
the twinkle of dollars in her eyes did appear.

The photographer arrived with equipment aplenty,
expecting a family of six less than twenty

The kleig lights on the crest of the newly swept stair,
set the stage for the farce of a vision set there

And what to his wondering eyes should arrive,
but two tiny children and six Kardashians live

with a lone man bedecked like Riff Raff’s lost twin,
whom the photog knew at once as former Olympian.

More vapid than tabloids his subjects they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now Kim! now Kris! now Kendall and Kylie!
Come Kourtney and Khloe; give me good face, no smiley!

Kim pose on the stair! Bruce claw at the glass!
Now smize away! smize away! and stick out that ass!"

As mannequins that before the wild hurricane break,
a tarnished dystopian concept did wake;

with everyone’s partners and the brother not there
the women pranced round in Vegas stripped bare

As the photographer snapped in flashes of light,
it became clear this was no festive night

They were dressed all in black from their heads to their toes,
and their clothes were expensive, the styling somehow morose;

A gleaming assortment of shoes, each one pointed,
graced the feet of each ‘K’ Kris had annointed.

The jewels—how they twinkled!  Their wrinkles quite smooth!
Their cheeks were like hollows!  Their brows hardly moved!

Their sweet little mouths were drawn up each in pout,
and it seemed in a glance features all were brushed out;

The staircase in pinks curved beneath ‘the end’ space,
graffiti’d with ‘fame’ and spray-painted Kim faces

The youngest were standing, rigid posed, on some ‘zines
underfoot and all trampled; what could it mean?

Behind them shone clearly an Illuminati eye
while mannequins burned in an alley nearby,

Kris perched like a showgirl on old cashier booth;
in an odd pointed headdress, and showing some tooth

Bruce spoke not a word, he just stared at his gold,
and the notion of (g)litter overwhelmed and grew old,

Nothing festive emerged nor did any halls deck,
Naught was merry (NO OFFENSE BEN AFFLECK)

It was done, praise be excess; and Kris chortled with glee
it was garish and horrid but it reeked of money.

My wish as it circulates and is marketed hard
is “May your Christmas be everything not in this kard”


- Corinne Simpson