De-Miracle on 34th Street.
By P.B. Phillips

Santa sat at the pole

Looking sadly into the hole

 

Little elf let the kettle overboil

Undoing the whole year’s work n’ toil

 

Toys at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean

Naught could save them, short of magic potion

 

How to keep the glee of all the girls and boys?

How to stop Christmas becoming just tears and noise?

 

‘I know, I have the trick

That’s way they call me Old St. Nick’

 

‘I’ll rob the rich, and give to the poor

Just like Robin Hood did, long before’

 

Dear Santa set out for Manhattan

Where banker’s bonuses so readily fatten

 

There on 34th Street he worked his miracle

Rung his bell and waxed his lyrical

 

But rich folk held tight their cash

It’s the reason why they have such a stash

 

Old Santa would brook no denial

He robbed them blind, and made a pile

 

His grey head was turned to the bad

Taking all the things, that others had had

 

No longer Santa, gift giver extraordinaire

Now a mega-mansion owner, in gated Bel Air.

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