let fallen snow blanket thine rooftop pitch
rosey-cheeked children sleep nestled in dreams
darned are the stockings of mother's gold stitch
hung on the mantle and stuffed to the seams
anisette for father, whom sleep awaits
nectar of thine cattle poured in a glass
baked goods arranged on the finest of plates
left is the waiting for nightfall to pass
drawn are the sheers to keep cold at its bay
the moon is eclipsed as weighted sleigh soars
the flame of thine candles flicker and sway
in shadows he looms; leaves soot on the floors
downing thine chimney is really quite slick
for a man the size of jolly st. nick
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