It’s getting pretty late,
at the bottom of the driveways
the naked trees await,
the tinsel has been vacuumedfrom the carpet and the chair,
the presents worn, or broken,
or just stowed beneath the stair.
This year’s cards have been reviewed
to find the tally, keep the score,
did we balance coming in with
going out, or were there more?
Daily exercise and diet
have returned to the routine,
twinkling lights on shrubs and bushes
less and less are to be seen.
Yet the preacher keeps insisting
Christmas starts on Christmas Day
then runs on until Epiphany,
I wish he’d go away.
I’d had enough of Christmas
after lunch the twenty-fifth
when the packages were opened
and I’d checked the final gift.
So stow the advent candles,
take wreaths and ribbons down,
let our sanctuary wear
its normal Calvinistic frown.
No more carols, please, I’ve had them
up to here in car and Mall,
and one more excelsis Deo
will install me ‘neath a pall.
Let’s keep Christmas in its place,
I say, control proliferation,
this “Peace on Earth, Goodwill to All”
is okay, in moderation.
But as for twelve full days of it,
all joyful, yet devout,
the Super Bowl is warming up
so, Reverend, count me out.
J. Barrie Shepherd
