I'm sick of writing about winter,
I'm sick of singing of Christmas,
And when my dear mistletoe lover will come.
If I have to find another word to rhyme with snow,
I might just bury myself in it.
It'd be kind of ironic you know,
Just think of all the places I still have left to go.
Please leave nativity to the other poets,
Don't expect just because you ask for a happy winter's poem,
You'll get one out of me.
Because I see snowflakes as another way to freeze,
And I see images of people, hanging from the Christmas tree.
So when comes Christmas Eve,
I will be sitting in my home,
By the fireplace,
As those less fortunate begin to freeze.
For, how can we have a rich holiday,
With baubles of silver,
And ornaments made of gold.
When the unfortunate fight for warmth on the streets,
No one will give them presents this Christmas.
I would, but even for a young man,
I've grown frail and weak.
I can't make it through a flurry,
Much less a proper Christmas Eve's storm.
Though, the way things are looking,
It won't be a white Christmas at all.
Children will bundle up,
To go play in the dead grass and mud.
How enchanting is that,
Christmas day green as a creeping ****.
It's scary when the pictures of Christmas you know,
Just look like something Hallmark would want you to believe.