The Tragedy of Errors

By Marsh Drylie

Alas poor Santa, I knew ye well,

Upon mine rooftop thou hast trippeth and fell.

I proddeth thine corpse for nigh an hour,

But soon it stinketh – decayed and sour.

I bury thee hastily ‘neath mine green, green lawn,

And sold thine reindeer at the old shoppe ‘Ye Pawn.’

But soon to mine door, thy elves shall come!

To which I shall feign to be deaf and dumb.