I won't tell me kids about Santa Claus,
And you might ask "Why?", because-
Like the Easter Bunny and Jack Frost,
You lied to your kids.
You meant well, I assure you,
And convinced them of wishes and miracles too,
And things falling out of the sky so blue,
But none of it is true.
Now, we all decieve ourselves a bit,
And believe in the ritualistic skits,
And pray, or wish, or write a list,
But logically, its all horse spit.
So when my kids look under the tree,
For their generic winter holiday gifts,
They'll see it came from dear old dad,
And at that, their spirits can lift.
"But why," you ask, "won't you tell them about Santa?"-
As you look at me like i've grown an antler,
And I'll take a breath, and let it out,
And try to contain what I ought to shout,
The poor and the needy are-
Abused by the greedy,
And the evil corporate overlords too.
They can't afford fancy presents,
They're living like peasants,
Its a state of modern serfdom, yet to you-
You buy phones and new games,
For your kids, with no shame,
And they think nothing of Santa when-
The poor kids might get socks,
And go outside to kick rocks,
And wonder why Santa hates them.
