Thursday, December 15, 2016

The Spite of Christmas Present - poem

“God bless us every one”
said Tiny Tim.

Scrooge begged,
“Spirit, don’t let his place be empty”

God said,
“Go forth and multiply.”

And the result: his corner of the room
packed out with Tiny Tims
on this and every Christmas
waving their crutches.

Look how their stumps kick out
no longer weighted down by booted feet.

Look how the masters of the blast that
ran away with their mobility
gaze on the symbols of the Nazarene.
God blast us every one!
a landmine now for every leg
for every brain a bullet

and for the poor,
a sharp machete blade.

(c) Richard Lawson

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