• Christmas is a time of little time.
    How we get there is a mystery.
    Racing madly mall-to-mall, we climb
    Into fields of sunlit harmony.
    Shopping, cooking, clearing walks and yards,
    Trimming house and tree while working, too;
    Making phone calls, wrapping, writing cards,
    As all worn out we do what we must do
    So that this day of joy might joy renew.

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