Tinseltide

Tinseltide

Parents, hey ?  But what can we do ?
They’re everso old, but it’s hard to remember.
They talk about Santa as if he were true,
And force us to visit him ev’ry December.
They want it so magic, and find it appalling
When robins are fighting and snowflakes aren’t falling.
And can you believe that they really believe
In such a ridiculous story ?
When even a six-year-old kid can perceive
It’s not just his beard that’s hoary.
But how can we tell them ?   But how can we hush them ?
We cannot dispel them, the heartbreak would crush them.
They joyfully, eagerly, giddily smoulder,
Until they explode on the Eve.
We hope they’ll grow out of it when they get older,
But right now, just let them believe.

They really think gravity’s losing its drag,
It sticks to our feet, but it won’t stick to Santa’s.
They talk about Rudolph as if she’s a stag
When only the does, come December, have antlers:
Now Helga !   Now Freya !   Now Magda and Bretta !
On Ingrid !   On Astrid !   On Dagmar and Greta !
He makes all our toys with his workforce of elves,
And only by sleigh they’re arriving.
But why do they look like the ones on the shelves ?
It sounds like our Santa’s been skiving.
But how can we tell them ?   But how can we plunder ?
We cannot dispel them, their innocent wonder.
They’re joyfully, eagerly, giddily merry,
And thoroughly cute and naive.
So hang up the stockings and leave out the sherry
And once more pretend we believe.