HAPPY CRISTMAS

LYRIS

The traditional lyrics are:

Jolly Old Saint Nicholas,
Lean your ear this way;
Don't you tell a single soul
What I'm going to say,

Christmas Eve is coming soon;
Now you dear old man,
Whisper what you'll bring to me;
Tell me if you can.

When the clock is striking twelve,
When I'm fast asleep,
Down the chimney broad and black
With your pack you'll creep;
All the stockings you will find
Hanging in a row;
Mine will be the shortest one;
You'll be sure to know. (Or, in some versions: "Mended at the toe.")

Johnny wants a pair of skates;
Susy wants a dolly;
Nellie wants a story book--
She thinks dolls are folly; (Or, in some versions: "She thinks they are jolly.")
As for me, my little brain
Isn't very bright;
Choose for me, old Santa Claus,
What you think is right.

The last verse has been changed in the 20th Century to:

Johnny wants a pair of skates,
Susie wants a sled;
Nelly wants a storybook –
one she hasn't read.
As for me, I hardly know,
so I'll go to rest.
Choose for me, dear Santa Claus,
What you think is best.

Another 20th C. variation:

Johnny wants a pair of skates;
Susie wants a sled;
Nelly wants a picture book –
Yellow, blue and red.
Now I think I'll leave to you
What to give the rest.
Choose for me, dear Santa Claus;
You will know the best.

             A FEW WORDS ABOUT CHRISTMAS

Christmas—or for the PC crowd, the celebration of the Frost Spirit—ushers in the season of neighborly good will and familial mirth. By the way, I didn’t make that bit up about the Frost Spirit. That new age nonsense was proffered by an HR rep at a previous employer. I digress. Christmas is a time for creating memories, connecting with family, lying to children, and fostering fantastic ideas of legendary figures emboldened by their altruistic natures. Of course, these figures take on mystical forms: impudent elvish serfs and the airborne beasts for whom they care. All of whom inhabit the uninhabitable: the most inhospitable of working environs. So we, as trusted parents—purveyors of wisdom and common sense to our young lads and lasses—perpetuate the myth of the elfin home invader. A seemingly benevolent soul, this bauble buccaneer and workplace despot steals into our homes in the dead of night bearing a bottomless bag of gifts and timeless Christmas memories. No insurance actuarial could even begin to calculate the damage to our shingles and chimneys that he and his hapless reindeer render cause when they crash land on our roofs and he wedges his ample self down the flu. The horror. So, it begs the question: are their motives nefarious? Who can say, but this modern day horror story that we proffer to young impressionable progeny no doubt leaves them questioning the once thought impervious stronghold they call home. So for this—this conjured story of gift-bearing little people and reindeer imbued with magical flying stealth—we sacrifice our credibility? Honestly, there must certainly be something wicked permeating the air during this winter of our communal discontent to compel us to ditch our foothold in reason and honor.

Merry Christmas!