poem

It was the night before Christmas when Santa Claus fell ill.
He was under a mountain of blankets, warding off chill.

Mrs. Claus took his temperature; ‘twas 102.
“Dear Nicholas,” she said, “Whatever should we do?”

With a cough and a hack, he beckoned an elf to his side.
That elf was Ginny, whose beauty and charm were bona fide.

Her long ginger hair flowed in tangles from beneath her cap.
Fit, young, perky: she was strictly kept from Santa’s lap.

There once was a lad who always seemed sad
That some things were the stuff of cartoons.
"How happy I’d be - how delighted - " mused he,
"If some girls could blow up like balloons."

Now, it happened one night, that conditions were right,
And his timing could not have been better;
As he wished once again, there appeared in the den
A young lady in togs and a sweater.

Inflation Fantasy in Metric Form