Imagine me poised for diurnal attack,
like a raptor who preys on hard shells;
a clam to crack on a rock with a whack,
'cause the deal is, the first peel of bells
on Christmas Day means that I must amaze,
with a gift that you could not conceive,
but I don't have a clue; I haven't for days
and the truth is, you wouldn't believe -

I've picked through your words like a tramp in a bin;
your mumbles at night for some sign:
each phrase a cadaver so painfully thin -
with no glint of a hint - there's just nine

days to shop, and I should 'til I've flopped
for gifts to ensure that you gasp;
but I've scavenged, pecked and even eavesdropped,
and I'm stumped, so damn, I'll just ask.