Mired deep in winter solstice cold and gloom,
Craving festivities aglow with cheer,
We lose our heads and foolishly assume
Debt we’ll regret all through the coming year.
Our budget’s of mere Cornish game hen size,
And we should choose a dinner fowl to match it,
But splurge instead, unthrifty and unwise,
To buy a turkey that outweighs Tim Cratchit.
We shop like fat-cat monarchs from the East,
Not stocking up on myrrh and frankincense,
But flashing quantities of gold, at least—
Gold cards with rates of fearsome consequence.
The season’s propaganda tells us we
Should generously aid our fellow man.
But who’s got money left for charity?
A doornail’s what that concept’s deader than.
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