the mist was blissful, was it not?
the smoke on the chimney dusty and light
and dusty the soot which bore from the ash
gave news that the flame was orange and hot
the melting wind blazed from the red fire,
the dancing flame, none the less warm,
it toasted your ears and felt like a song
while there was a faint sound that came from much higher.
All looked to the windows, most lined with soft brick
the white crispy piles of soft frozen drops
made ones vision blurry as they swirled through the air
but suddenly a cry made it clear, 'look' cried a girl 'why if it isn't saint nick!'
twas the jolly old man with a sack of wrapped things
he bellowed and chuckled and children would join
they imitated the kind sound of his laugh
ho ho ho you could hear them all sing
and to you and to me
what took place that night
to lay eye on that man
could but only be dreamed
so fair maids and men with too high a brow
dont ever stop believing
always have hope
because you never know when he'll come around.
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