Breakcrate Day

Finally! A day alone!
A day that I may call "my own."
Well, not alone as in "by myself."
But alone. No relatives or elves on the shelf.

We have this time, here, now,
To relax, to rest, to eat roasted cow,
To wallow and wade through tinsel and foil,
As if it were Merriment's fertile soil.

And then we sort, and order, and sort,
The piles of things not growing short,
And to each pigeon gets a pigeon hole,
And to each corpus goes a spirit or a soul.

Last and not least, let us always remember
That such joy and relaxation happens each December,
And what really counts, after all, in the end,
Is the people (or person) with whom this time you spend.