The Ballad of Mrs. Scrooge

angels
I am married to a cranky old geezer.
You might already know him; his name’s Ebenezer.
When the whole world rings with Christmas spirit,
He says, “Bah, humbug!”–he doesn’t want to hear it.

He doesn’t like “Jingle Bells” or “Silent Night;”
He sneers when he hears about Rudolph’s brave flight.
He completely abhors “The Twelve Days of Christmas,”
And thinks that the Drummer Boy should jump off an isthmus.

He’s allergic to mistletoe, holly, and pine.
He says decorations are a big waste of time.
He simply loathes fruitcake, chestnuts, and eggnog.
We have central heating, so who needs a Yule log?

He thinks holiday shopping is commercialized trumpery,
And hanging lights only helps the electrical company.
He doesn’t believe in ol’ Santa Claus.
Marley’s ghost gave him up as a hopeless, lost cause.

He won’t be visited by the three Christmas ghosts.
He won’t be invited for warm Christmas toasts.
He gags when he sees It’s a Wonderful Life.
Does he like anything? Well, yes—me, his wife.

For me he will sometimes be happy and pleasant.
He bought me a live tree as a surprise Christmas present.
He won’t decorate, but he’ll get down the boxes.
He doesn’t complain about my “Jingle Bell Rockses,”

Or “Joy to the Worlds” or “Oh Holy Nights.”
He lets me hang up all my big Christmas lights.
And come Christmas morning, under the tree,
There’ll be stacks of wrapped presents that he bought for me.

Though it looks like his heart is three sizes too small,
And he doesn’t have holiday spirit at all,
I’m here to affirm that, inside his crab’s shell,
He actually likes Christmas.

A little.

(Don’t tell).

holly