The Gingerbread House in the Gingerbread Forest,
   That’s where it took place.
The gin, the St. Vitus, the gingevitis,
   Whatever it was, her face

Was pinker than usual that night,
   Her lingerie more fluid,
While I, in the hopes of such delight,
   Had purchased of the Druid

A pair of plain brown envelopes
   In which there lay concealed
A certain…But still wilder hopes
   Clamor to be revealed:

Grandmama in her thermal formal,
   Grandpapa in his cape,
Had just settled down to a less-than-normal
   Minuend of rape,

When out in the clutter of Forest Lawn
   Stone furniture there landed
A wee little ship, from whose wee little hatch
   There strode forth, openhanded,

A wee little man, with his little ol’ eyes
   So shifty and lightnin’-quick
That we knew right away (oh, what a surprise!)
   That it must be Tricky-Dick.

We snuggled all close with the shivery sheets
   Pulled over our heads and then
We sprang into bed. The dirty old beast—
   No tellin’ about some men—

He was coming inside. Where else could we hide?
   (Ooh, this was getting fun!)
He was trying the house for chimneys—no—
   And for doors—there was only one—

Oh goodie he found it. Around he bounded
   Casing the joint for Green,
Casing the joint for Red—confounded
   Snooper he was, and mean.

He knew what a stocking was used for: to hang.
   And goodies for kiddies: to hide.
To hide from the sniveling beggars. We sprang
   For the door. We had made it! Outside!

We twisted the key in the Gingerbread Lock
   In the Patented Blast-proof Door;
And that’s where we’ve left him, the silly old crock.
   Merry Christmas, and Christmases more!

This Issue

December 17, 1970