Mocked

I'm alive but I churn.
My mind's eye turns,
to an absurd bird.
A mocking bird, mocking.

It urges splurges of turd,
on the rocking chair, mocking.
Then in my stocking.
It's daunting, wondering, when the taunting will end.

It's the eve of Christmas,
I have letters to send, do not mock me.
You have the toes of a werewolf and the arms of a zombie.
The crows ugly mind, a hyaena’s cackle.

Yet, you are the one, truly in shackles.
Cant stop laughing, for even a moments pause.
Even along, with old Santie clause.

So sink your claws in deep, lets go for a ride,
down candy mountain and hope we survive.