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The mistletoe was too low.

It got stuck in my hair.

As I ripped it away

I pretended not to care.

I still managed to get a kiss from the  girl.

My first proper kiss

Made my bleeding head swirl.

Fifteen years later

I married that lass.

I hated her parents.

They thought I was crass

I did all of the chores.

I thought I was brave.

How was I to know

I’d been turned into a slave?

Under the mistletoe one Xmas

With my usual Xmas frown

A badly made beam

Came crashing down.

It hurt us both badly

And hit with such force

That it ended up

In a nasty divorce.

So after this long saga

I’m sure that you will see

Why I hate mistletoe

Because mistletoe hates me.