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That poor old man called Santa Claus

     Looked round and then he sighed -

And on his desk were lists of toys,

     And poor old Santa cried.

 

‘A hundred years delivering toys

     Is more than I can take!’

He dried the tears on both his cheeks:

      ‘And changes I will make.’

 

He advertised his Santa job:

     Perhaps you saw it too.

‘A lovely vacancy,’ it said:

     ‘Is waiting here for you.’

 

Within a week his job had gone.

     He packed his bags and went.

He left the world of kids and toys

     To a life much more content.

 

He burnt the red coat and the hat,

     Waved goodbye to his deer;

He shaved the white beard from his face

      And gave a hearty cheer.

 

He shut the door and hurried off

     To somewhere in the sun -

And he’ll not turn out Christmas Eve

      For he’ll be having fun!!

 

So, before you sleep on Christmas Eve,

     Look out and into space:

For that new man, with lists in hand,

      Has taken Santa’s place.

 

I hope you’ll get the things you’d like

     For a new job’s hard to do:

But hopefully, when you awake,

     There’ll be some gifts for you.

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Copyright on all my poems

 

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