Not a creature is stirring, not even the cat.
The tree once displayed to the people who pass
Is now but a shambles of tinsel and glass.
The bright coloured playthings just fresh from the store
Lie battered and broken all over the floor.
The fifteen-pound turkey, so fat and so sleek
Is going to be used to make soup all next week.
And where are the dishes? Well, where do you think?
As high as a mountain, they're piled in the sink.
My head aches like fury, my stomach complains,
My body is tortured with aches and with pains.
Though Christmastime brings all its good will and cheer,
I'm glad that it only comes once every year.
Comments: With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore! This is another poem that is out-of-time, with respect to our current calendar, but it's the next one in my Dad's collection. (I disclaim all knowledge of cat or broken toys.)
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thank you for commenting on my Dad's poem.