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.
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