Christmas fast approaches
And all around me
Like surf of a stormy sea
It pounds at me
From voluminous lists
I cross off faîtes accomplis
Yet no end in sight
Do I see
Too fleeting, too short
The tide of time
Drives me, reminds me
To rest is a crime
So I bake
And I wrap
And I shop
Without stop
In desperation I swear
December next year
I'll bag the Santa thing
And sleep until spring