Circa - approximately early
to late nineteen sixties,
     where yours truly
found himself surly,
particularly compounded
     if my parents,

where Mister and
Missus Santa Claus
played by Boyce and
Harriet Harris respectively

     failed to purchase
     for this sole son,
thee latest trendy
     toy, sans whirly
gig, gizmo, or
     fuzzy electric doohickey,
     BUT NOTHING girly.

Translation: Inxs of
     severe (incurable) envy
     infected Matthew Scott
most pronounced, asper
   quantity of presents,

     the gratitude receiving gifts
     meant diddly squat
if I counted less goodies,
     than either eldest,
     and/or youngest sister got.

This rancor kept
     under (ahem) wraps
though ironically, either
     sibling oohed and ahed
     over some fancy shmancy
     garment with snaps,

which this lad
     feigned ambivalence,
     indifference, or
     repugnance toward getup
     for young chaps.

No sooner did the
     last, (and usually
     biggest) boxed surprise
found these then kiddie
     fingers tearing into,
     when thine irritating
     nasal voice didst rise

above the melee "That's all,"
     or some variation
     on said theme blurted out
     as "FAKE" real lies
already, eagerly, and impatiently
     anticipating same holiday
     three hundred and sixty

     five days, hence unaware
     how fast "time flies"
now this soon to be newly
     minted sexagenarian eyes,
those memories of innocent
     naiveté, and bliss

     with sentimental nostalgia
     (envision: slight moisture
     around tear ducts), and
     aye close this poem
     with reminiscence dabbed
     with tissue sadness dries.