I'm Dreaming Of A Gentlemanly Christmas
It was Christmas Eve. France sat happily in a picture, sipping soothing eggnog.
He looked at the fragrant wine hanging on the Christmas Tree and sighed. Last year, England had hung it there, just before they looked at each other huskily and then fell into each other's arms and molested each other's chest.
If only I hadn't been so rosy, France thought, pouring a seductive amount of rum into his eggnog. Then England might not have got so artistic and left me all alone at Christmas time. He wiped away a beautiful tear and held his lips in his hand.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door and then a sparkling voice lifted gracefully up in song.
I'm dreaming of a gentlemanly Christmas
Just like a phoenix born from ashes.
France ran to the door. It was England, looking handsome all over with snow.
"I missed you politely," England said. "And I wanted to molest your chest again."
France hugged England and started to sob.
"I think you're drunk," England said.
"I think so too," France said and they molested each other's chest until they knocked the Christmas tree over.
On Christmas Day, they ate roasted horse hand and lived randomly until France got drunk again.