An Ode To Glogg*

I bought some glogg
for Xmas, I said.
The family was agog.
Why not egg nog?

I should have known better
than start this dialog.
But egg nog’s so cliché
like summer's hot dog.

A toast of glogg over the burning yule log
would be tasty and fun, like slop to a hog.
And glogg was non-alcoholic,
unlike its cousin, the grog.

But the family was angry;
they were fit to flog,
if I should disavow
their traditional egg nog

Yet glogg is from Sweden, of the ice and the fog,
where Santa sleeps, and reindeer clog.
I said we could eat, drink and be merry like Santa himself,
till we were ripe with glee, and fat as a frog.

They said that’s fine for Big Dave;
he can drink his old glogg.
But for the rest of the fam,
we will stick with egg nog.

So there’s nothing to do
'cept an epilog—
a poem, a lament,
or maybe a . . .

Merry Christmas!

* Oops. Blame it on the holiday rush. It's spelled glogg, not glog. Not only that, glogg rhymes with oog as in our dog Doog. Oh, well. I did say this was an "ode." So it doesn't have to rhyme.