In the bleak mid-winter…
By the Sacred Fire, I gnawed a blackened bone then took pleasure in the booze soaked straw.
By Columba’s cross, I stroked the crib where He first gurgled then stuffed my gut to ease the Fast.
By John Knox’s pulpit, I heard, “No pagan singing!” then up ‘n toiled like every day.
By the glowing hearth, I bent dead Albert’s tree then drew an orange from a tattered sock.
By the flickering screen, I watch Mrs. Brown then listen for a phone call or a chap on the door
By the Sacred Fire, I gnawed a blackened bone then took pleasure in the booze soaked straw.
By Columba’s cross, I stroked the crib where He first gurgled then stuffed my gut to ease the Fast.
By John Knox’s pulpit, I heard, “No pagan singing!” then up ‘n toiled like every day.
By the glowing hearth, I bent dead Albert’s tree then drew an orange from a tattered sock.
By the flickering screen, I watch Mrs. Brown then listen for a phone call or a chap on the door
