That mouse isn’t stirring, cheese flavored arsenic
The children in bed, can’t sleep a wink, hyped on speed
Those presents aren’t present, forgetful Saint Nick
Hooves on the roof, meat on the hoof, venison suits Santa’s need
Gaudy tree, covered in light, bulbs burst into flames
A candle, black to the wick, topples over so bright
The house catches fire, to the spire, no one to blame
Flames of red, reaching new heights, oh what a sight
A family of tradition, every one, has perished
Is this your holiday, when your savior was born?
Have they been loyal to the cause, as you wished?
Burned stories, charred lives, for a fake man, how forlorn
One of my teachers a while ago issued me the assignment of writing a Christmas poem. The fact that I do not believe in there being a god of any sort, and her still assigning this task to me, really angered me. I felt lost because there was no way I would write a traditional Christmas poem. Then, at 3 in the morning this poem scrambled forth as an idea. I won’t give my summary of exactly what Tragic Tradition is discussing. I’d rather you interpret it, I won’t undermine your intelligence by explaining it for you.
~Patty