By F.R. Duplantier
A fruitcake came one day
And I sent it on its way.
The next day, then,
It was back again,
But here it cannot stay.
I sent it to one brother,
Who sent it to another.
It eventually
Came back to me,
In a package from my mother.
I sent it to a friend —
At least, he was ’til then.
He sent it back
With a caustic crack
And we never spoke again.
I sent it to my boss
And signed it “Santa Claus.”
My name he guessed
And readdressed
That spice-baked albatross.
I sent it to a client,
Who proved to be defiant:
It seems the space
In his office place
Is fruitcake noncompliant.
I picked someone at random
In hopes that he could stand ’em.
It was returned:
Somehow he’d learned
I was the Fruitcake Phantom.
If a fruitcake comes today,
I think I’ll let it stay.
It’s crystal clear
Its place is here —
And I must move away.