I found a Yeti on my settee
and he said his name was Freddy
and it seemed that he was ready for his tea.
When I poured it he ignored it,
citing feathers on his floret
and no one caught the blame except for me.
So I asked him—not to tax him—
just to settle and relax him,
if he thought the weather might be good for ducks.
He said the rain is very boring
but commenced to start imploring
if I really cared or didn’t give two fucks.
Again, I pushed the issue
but with skin as thin as tissue,
I wasn’t quite prepared for what I got.
His fur went all a-bristle,
stiff and prickled up like thistle,
and he snorted fire, or maybe it was snot.
“You!” He jabbed a finger.
“In my presence do not linger.”
Then went on to hurl a zinger and a curse.
“You’re a bane to my existence,
so don’t bother with resistance.
Try it once and surely you’ll require a hearse.”
“You’re an ass!” I shouted loudly,
not considering how proudly
he’d regard the chance to yell right back at me.
“This is my house. Not your hovel.
If I have to get a shovel,
I will muck you out, such shit you’ve come to be.”
“Try it!” Freddy hooted,
unconcerned that he’d been booted
from my home and not at all inclined to leave.
“Can’t you see you’re not my master?
Bitch, you’re flirtin’ with disaster
if you think you have such tough tricks up your sleeve.”
With no desire to keep pursuing
what could well be my undoing,
I sat back and chose instead to not reply.
Think quick! I must be clever,
for whatever my endeavor,
must be fast and sure and handy on the fly.
“More tea?” I asked so sweetly,
yet was all the while discreetly
planning just what I could do to shut him down.
“Or cava? If not wine,
how ‘bout some java?
Mocha latte with a whipped and foamy crown?”
“The latte sounds delightful.”
And he sounded so insightful.
Not a hint of churlish, spiteful Yeti now.
Maybe drink would be his weakness,
a proper ode to his uniqueness,
if I could only figure out the best way how.
So off to brew I scurried,
trying not to seem so hurried,
in a rush to bet my life on this brave plan.
Ingredients selected,
I got all of them collected
and set off to find redemption in a can.
“Great Stuff!” exclaimed the label.
I sure hoped that it was able
to dispatch my problem like instructions read.
If he drank his latte fast,
and didn’t sip to make it last,
he’d never notice what he poured into his head.
Yetis are not known for manners.
They’re not architects or planners.
They don’t collude or scheme or strategize their meal.
“Bottoms up, my dearest Freddy.
I can get another ready
if you think another helping does appeal.”
By the time he downed the second,
he was looking rather fecund,
like his gullet might explode at any time.
He couldn’t yell. He couldn’t speak.
He pointed to his mug and squeaked.
I calmly took another sip from mine.
He grabbed his throat
and clawed the bloat.
His bulging eyes turned Power Ranger red.
The cause of suffocation?
That expanding insulation.
His whipping cream had been “Great Stuff” instead.
He wiggled and he jiggled
as I stood nearby and giggled.
He thrashed and kicked and flopped and then grew still.
Was he dead? How could I know?
So I poked him with my toe.
How does one confirm a Yeti kill?
His fur was stiff and matted,
And in several places tatted,
But it might brush out and make a decent rug.
I could use the shorter fringes
with suspicious yellow tinges
to decorate a fuzzy pair of Uggs.
But pee-stains notwithstanding,
Even dead he’s damn demanding.
Could I sell him to a research lab for cash?
Eh, not worth the trouble
even if they paid me double.
I’ll turn that bastard to a pile of ash.
The moral of this ditty?
When a Yeti seems quite witty,
for God’s sake don’t invite him in for tea.
A rug’s not worth the worry.
And who likes Uggs so furry?
Just heed my words and take this tip from me.
This may be the most ridiculous thing I've ever written. But I made myself laugh while I was writing it, so comedy mission accomplished. . .at least for me. LOL
This is all 
My two nominations are 
Thank you 
