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The Last Christmas

A Christmas poem by Kenwood’s Marj McKenzie Davis, age 101, founder of Fawn Rescue

‘Twas the day after Christmas, St. Nicholas was beat.

He sat by the fireplace warming his feet.

His eyes how they watered, his nose how it sniffed.

Old Santa was mumbling, he truly was miffed.

As he huddled in blankets from his head to his toes,

Said, (laying a finger aside of his nose)

“I’m not going to take that cold trip anymore.

The world is too big, there are dangers galore.

Satellites, spaceships, bombs bursting in air—

While you sit at home, so what do you care?

There you are, all snuggled safe in your bed

While rockets are dancing around o’er my head.

You’ll see, come next Christmas I’m not going to go.”

Mrs. Santa was thinking, but said not a word,

“By far the most sensible statement I’ve heard.”

Out in the toy shop the elves were at work.

As he busily painted, one turned with a jerk

And casually stated, while stroking his beard,

“I see the end coming. It’s just as I feared—

To fly reindeer and sleigh in the sleet and the cold.”

The reindeer were bedded all cozy and warm.

So glad to be back from their trip in the storm.

Dasher was pawing a place in the hay.

Dancer was searching for someplace to lay.

Old Prancer was picking some straw from his teeth.

The dust, it encircled their heads like a wreath.

Vixen was nodding, curled up in her stall,

When Comet remarked, “I don’t like it at all—

Pulling us out of our beds in the night,

Dashing hither and yon, it just isn’t right!”

“Oh yes, what a journey,” sighed Cupid again.

Donner moaned, “How I hate going in the rain.”

Blitzen loudly exclaimed, “No ifs, ands, or buts,

To do this again we’d have to be nuts.

Santa drags us all over in storm and in snow,

Let’s tell him next Christmas we’re not going to go!”

So it was decided by both beast and man—

No more Christmas excursions, not ever again.

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