The Christmas Sweater

Twas the week before Christmas, when all through the house,
The lady was busy knitting, quiet as a mouse.
She was not knitting stockings, she was not knitting mitts,
Instead she was knitting a man's XXXL colourwork sweater, which was driving her out of her wits.

The birds were nestled all snug in their cages,
While the lady swore intensely, and was flung into rages.
And she in her armchair, and he on his couch,
wondered why the lady was so suddenly a grouch.

When deep from her soul there arose such a groan,
that bespoke of her knowledge that she had herself to blame alone.
Embracing the fury she knit like a flash,
hoping that colourwork would flatter and not clash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
went unnoticed by her uninterrupted knitting flow.
Oh, what to her wondering mind would Christmas bring?
Success or failure, gad this wretched thing!

She did really love to knit for this dude,
even though this poem implies thoughts so crude.
The sweater would be loved, of this she was sure,
So all that internal bitching, she would push through and endure.

"Now knit, now purl, now knit and purl and repeat!
This sweater will look so great when it is complete!
I know he'll love it, I can imagine his smile,
when he opens the box, and wears it a while.

"He'll be so happy with this sweater hand knit,
No matter my rages, my cursing, my fits.
He'll take handsome pictures all snug by the fire,
With a drinky in hand, and a lady no longer filled with ire.

The story continues, my friends, it's not done,
there's a week to go, and so on with the fun.
Will she finish the sweater? Will she succeed at her task?
Or will Christmas find her at the bottom of a whisky flask?