‘Twas the eve of woke Christmas, when all through the night

 not a protest was stirring, not even gay rights

The pronouns were hung in the bio with care,

In hopes that woke Nicholas soon would be there;  

The polycule nestled all snug in their bed,

While visions of lesbians danced in their heads.

To the Tune of "Eleanor Rigby" by The Beatles

Mordecai Rigby,

Procrastinate in the park

to boss Benson’s fury

Through the thin metal bars of my cage, I sit and stare silently up at you.

My claws have been clipped and my fangs have been pulled.

My ears have been cropped, braced and taped upright into the perfect point.

My shiny coat shimmers as you bend forward, your palm outstretched.

I do not move a muscle, with my shoulders bent back and my spine snapped straight.

Your nails dig into my muzzle, pry open my jaw and trace my whitened teeth.

Later, when your hand is gone and my mouth is closed, I will wish I had bitten you.

My jaw would’ve snapped shut, crunching into the bones of your fingers.

There’d be no remorse in my eyes, staring up as you writhe between my teeth.

You’d taste bitter and rotten; still I’d savor the flavor out of spite.

But I don’t bite.