Dear Santa, since you don’t exist
And as I find the season numbing,
I don’t want any of your gifts,
Just the boxes they come in.
Not to play with, you understand –
I no more like to play than dance –
There’s just a sense, both sad and grand
In each present’s absence.
The annual let-down Christmas is –
Santa’s just Dad, there’s seldom snow
And Mum just getting in a tizz –
I can’t wait to grow.
I’d soonest have an empty box,
A metaphor almost too knowing,
That giver and receiver mocks:
There both are going.
Larkin
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