Manwich Christmas?

Does Manwich already have the meat added?
If so my last poem must be "my-badded".

If Manwich is meaty, stock your basement ceiling to floor,
Cuz You won't be buying meat when you're old, green and poor.

Maybe Manwich is not just a red masculine sauce.
Maybe Manwich is a maker of red masculine floss.

Red dental tape to thread popcorn and cranberries.
To butch up the holidays for our Toms, Dicks and Harrys.

December is one big multi-pronged to-do...
A wild project for all those who who and who...

Who yearn for the drummer boy's gift giving balls
Who yearn for gabbing snowmen and white Christmas squalls

Who yearn to find happiness by a good tree flocking.
Who yearn for endorphins from a super-well-hung stocking.

Now for the serious bit...
of this rhyming shit.

Here comes a Christmas-time hint that you've earned!
It's my holiday wisdom -- the hard way learned.

You are your own Santa...that much I know.
You fill your own sack...you make your own snow.

You are the 24th. You are Baby J.
You are the manger filled with aromatic hay.

You are the egg nog spiced oh so right.
You are the couple that chose not to fight.

You are the anticipation. You are the glee.
You are the shepards. You are the tree.

Christmas is inside every man, woman and steer.
Christmas is your own hard-on. Go hump reindeer.

But what about anyone turned off by dick refs?
What about anyone not into dick-joke-making chefs?

All I can do is smile n' say "I hope you like it!"
For there is no gift receipt...there's no car, so hike it.