Caught on the grounds, with Christmas tree
That had dropped because I'd chopped.
Miffed owner eyed me warily
While on cell phone, called the cops.

It gave me a penitential feeling, I did hear
His voice ringing, "Why'm I yellin'?
Seize, please, felon; he's trees fellin'!"

Dropped on the ground, this Christmas tree.
I hope they shan't haul away
Me to the penitentiary,
I must soon fashion my play.

[chainsaw interlude]

Drop on the ground--me, to my knee
And dispirited I sing:
"They messed me up, my punk kin; I
Need not jail but counseling."

To sentiments I attempt appealing, but it's clear:
Cloying ploys he finds appalling.
Deck this tall dick; mauled, he's falling.

Dropping, he's down, like Christmas tree
I happily haul away--
Also his haberdashery,
Left him nude, fashions 'porter.*


*short for prête-à-porter, ready to wear; in a sartorial sense, "porter" means "to wear," but the word's primary definition is "to carry."