I sing a song
In these days of December.
Just a little song
So that I can best remember.
It is the oddest thing these Christmases
together, when the day comes,
It would destroy fond memories
like the pestilence it has become.
Introspection causes headaches in the aged.
Not to mention distraction amid the variety
of gay activities and mistletoe.
We might become the odd romantic photo
left behind on grandma's chair, left fading,
In return the chocolates are bittersweet.
i found the present three years ago I wanted to return.
So off I go to Wally World.
If intensity of faith
is required to make x-mas work.
Than all the athiests would be crying the blues.
Fear not dreaded agnostic you are not left
The social ritual is dogmatic.