I peek into my little red stocking
And see a lonely lump of coal.
Surely, Santa didn’t give me this.
He’s busy double-checking his lists;The sleigh’s still in the shop. No, no――
I think I know these prints, these
Black smudges soiling my sock.See, Santa never leaves a trace;
Even when he dishes coal,
He does so with a silent grace―Not this appalling ruckus.
It appears I received this ugly stone
As a going-away present――and yetI had only arrived not long ago.
My holiday will not be happy;
Before long I may cease to believe
That reindeer know how to fly.
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