It was a very odd Christmas indeed,

instead of joy there was only greed.

The children did not dance around their trees, St. Nick did not travel across the seas.

What kind of Christmas was it,

you ask? It was sad and mediocre at best.

There were no lights, no Northern Star,

just drunks in bars smoking cigars.

Christmas was now only a myth, just another pointless twenty-fifth.

If I could, I would tell you more,

but this story is such a bore.

I’d rather talk about a story not written yet,

one that you will never forget.