There once was a boy named duckie,
Whose life was bare and lucky.
He almost never wore pants at all,
Since his cock was huge and liked to sprawl.

But one cold morning he gave it a try,
Slipped into jeans with a hopeful sigh.
He muttered, “how hard can clothing be?”
Then found out the truth quite painfully.

He tugged the zipper nice and slow,
But his monster cock said, “I refuse to go.”
It flopped and swung like a wayward trout,
And would not tuck itself inside the route.

Duckie pushed and coaxed and begged,
He even tried tucking it down one leg.
Finally he forced the zipper tight,
And that is when the world went bright.

The metal teeth clamped down with a zip,
Caught the tip of his heroic whip.
Duckie screamed in seven languages,
Invented five more, and cursed his bandages.

He hopped around like a wounded deer,
Crying, “my dick is stuck, oh dear.”
Neighbors watched from behind their blinds,
Pretending they could not hear his whines.

After much sweat and tragic groans,
He freed the beast from denim stones.
It popped out proud, triumphant, red,
Like it had just come back from the dead.

Duckie swore he would never again
Trap his giant friend inside a pen.
He tossed the jeans straight into the bin,
And declared, “pants are a mortal sin.”

Now he lives the way he prefers to be,
Bare, happy, floppy, and zipper free.

Elves are known for toys and dough,
For cookies baked in festive rows.
They hammer, stitch, and sprinkle cheer,
And work their magic every year.

But hidden deep in Santa’s crew,
There is a skill just known to few.
A talent whispered soft like myth,
A secret art they call the Gift.

And one small elf named Tinsel McGlee
Was famous for it across the tree.
Not carving wood or icing treats,
But what he did between the sheets.

See, Tinsel had a tongue so quick,
It could outpace Saint Nick’s sleigh trick.
A swirl, a twirl, a skill divine,
He made the grown folk gasp each time.

Which brought him straight to Mrs. Claus,
The queen of cheer with iron laws.
She found his talent quite a perk,
And put poor Tinsel right to work.

He barely slept from Christmas Eve,
For she would tug upon his sleeve.
“Come here, my elf, I need delight,
Bring all that magic tongue tonight.”

By sunrise he was woozy, spent,
His little legs all wobbly bent.
He sighed, “I miss the cookies’ taste,
Instead I serve Mrs. Claus with fevered haste.

“All day I lick, all night I please,
My tongue has seen more shifts than trees.
I beg for rest, I beg for peace,
But she just shouts, ‘More joy, release!’”

Yet still he serves, year after year,
Obeying every call he hears.
Though tired, dazed, and out of breath,
He keeps his title till his death.

So when you hear the sleigh bells ring,
And Mrs. Claus begins to sing,
Just know it’s not the reindeer’s flight…
It’s Tinsel’s tongue pleasing her all night.

There once was an elf named Jingle McSprout,
Who slacked on his quota and kept sneaking out.
While all of the others built toys by the heap,
He napped in a sleigh and pretended to sweep.

One morning the ledger came back with a clunk,
And Santa yelled, “Who made this pile of junk?”
Every elf froze as the numbers came clear.
Jingle had built… well… nothing this year.

So off he was marched with a terrified squeak,
Straight to the office he prayed not to seek.
For Mrs. Claus waited, all strict and severe,
A legend of discipline known far and near.

She shut the door gently, said, “Strip to your skin.”
The elf whimpered softly, “I never win.”
His clothes hit the floor in one nervous drop,
She lifted a cane like a candycane prop.

The first strike was loud, a crack like a whip.
He hopped up and down with a wobbly hip.
The second one landed with peppermint flair,
He yelped so hard ornaments shook everywhere.

She swung with precision, a festive routine,
Painting his butt in a red and white sheen.
By stripe number twelve his tears began to flow,
Hoping his cheeks would soon cool in the snow.

When all was done she said, “Back to your bench.
Next time you slack you will earn the full trench.”
He waddled out slowly, so sore as he rose,
His rear end brighter than Rudolph’s nose.

Now Jingle works daily with holiday pride,
A striped little warning across his backside.
And every elf whispers when snowfall is light,
“Do your job well or get caned by the Mrs. tonight.”

There once was a sub with a gaping hole,
A proud little badge of his long term goal.
He wiggled and bragged with a goofy grin,
“Look what my training has broken in.”

Each week his Mistress would up the game,
New toys arrived that barely had names.
The small ones vanished like they never existed,
The medium ones barely even resisted.

Then came the big ones, tall as a pole,
And somehow he still said, “Yeah, sure, let’s roll.”
He shuffled around like a circus trick,
Happy as hell that he made her pick.

Neighbors would ask why he walked so slow,
He just smirked and said, “You don’t wanna know.”
Friends would wonder about his odd little strut,
He whispered, “Training,” and tightened his butt.

Now he is famous in Mistress’s crew,
Known as the guy who can take the new new.
He bows and giggles like this is his role,
Forever the sub with the gaping hole.