A Merry Christmas: The Christmas Spirit
Old Bondholder on his face a frown
In his ledger was jotting some figures down
On his face there appeared an aggressive look
As he finally laid aside the book
These people must pay, I’ll let them know
This stand off business with me won’t go
My rent I’ll have without delay
I’ll turn them out if they cannot pay
A gentle tap at his office door
“Come in,” (his voice was an angry roar)
“What do you want?” he turned to see
A smiling youth with a Christmas tree
“Take it out!” he cried as he caught the sheen
Of the small fir tree with its leaves of green
“I want no reminder of Christmas cheer,
You can’t sell any shrubbery here.”
The youth but smiled and Bondholder stood
As though he were turned to a block of wood
While from the urchin there shone a light
That filled the room with radiance bright
“See here,” said the youth. “There’s Mrs. Brown,
Her health has broken completely down;
She’s worked till she can’t stand on her feet
Will you turn her out into the street?”
“And Brooks has done his level best,
To make for his brood a cozy nest,
Because he’s sick you can’t you know
Drive those children into the snow.”
That willing smile old Bondholder felt
His flinty heart beginning to melt
And a feeling he could not understand
Impelled him to reach for the strangers hand.
“Who are you?” he asked, and his voice was low,
“You come to me whom you do not know
And seek to dictate what I should do.
Pray why should this matter trouble you.”
A brighter smile and the radiance grew
Until it enveloped old Bondholder too
“Who am I? My name you often hear it
I’m called on earth the Christmas Spirit.”
The Spirit vanished and Bondholder took
From out the drawer his cherished book
The record of all delinquent rent
He had vowed to collect, yes every cent.
And he wrote in characters plain and bold
Which the angels embossed in shining gold
These rents are paid to the very last dime
By the blessed spirit of Christmas time.”
Sing it yourself : Everybody Knows or Auto Know It
My auto ’tis of thee, short cut to poverty, of thee I chant.
I blew a pile of dough on you two years ago, and now you quite refuse to go, or won’t or can’t.
Through town and countryside you were my joy and pride, a happy day.
I loved thy gandy hue and nice white tires so new, but now you’re down and out for true, in every way.
To thee old rattlebox, came many bumps and knocks, for thee I grieve.
Badly thy top is torn, frayed are thy seats and worn, the whooping cough affects thy horn, I do believe.
Thy perfume swells the breeze, while good folks choke and sneeze, as we pass by.