Whenever the cat climbed the Christmas tree,
    an ornament fell: thoonk-tinkle.
And from the kitchen an acrid odor—
    the rutabagas are burning!

Some say the old times only seem happy
    ’cause we forget the rest,
yet I hope to one day fondly recall
    going broke buying presents.

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© 2006 Warren Farr, revised 3/18
Reprinted from Poems by an Artist.