The Fruitcake

Once upon a late December, cold and dark as I remember,
Yule log now to coals diminished casts dim shadows on the floor.
Several hours after blessing, stuffed with turkey pie and dressing,
Tender abdomen caressing, I lay supine on the floor.
Yet one package to be opened, left this morning at my door;
Left mysteriously at the door.

Should have known, she always sends one. She cares not if she offends some,
Sent the same stale fruitcake that she always sent before.
Soddon lump so misbegotten, red and green bits nearly rotton,
Crust like bark and dry as cotton, weevils couldn't through it bore.
God knows when she baked it or how long she kept it stored.
Mable's fruitcake I abhor.

Why does Mabel always send it? She knows well it will offend. It
Must be punishment for some imagined slight from days before.
I recalled that wicked maven, somber countenance and craven,
Voice and visage like raven, semblance to that bird she bore.
Since then gastronomic punishment at Christmas I foreswore.
Mable's fruitcake--nevermore.

Yet again as season's greeting, comes this thing I won't be eating.
Won't be eating this concoction that old Mable labored o'er.
Get away thou foul confection! Here's my ultimate rejection-
Throwing arm is bent in flexion, now extended briskly fore.
Take thy stench from out my house and feed the ravens evermore.
Give me fruitcake--nevermore.