The man sits stationary in his favorite chair
While children are adrift in their dainty dreams
Fire spits, crackles, and warms the room
One that is far colder than it seems
Much like shimmering snowflakes fluttering down
Memories fall from his clouded mind
Santa should be half past San Francisco by now
Leaving crumbs and subtle grace behind
The man calls himself an imperfectionist
Because flaws are the greatest gift of all
But soon, carols will fade back into their music box
Only regret will deck these halls
Under a Christmas tree as green as his envy
Presents sit wrapped as tightly as his lips
Reindeer could be sailing across winter skies
But he's obscured by his mind's eclipse
There's no more bliss in the land of wonder
There's no more repeating of sounding joy
The man fades into uneasy Christmas slumber
So ends yet another year, as a misfit toy