The bones of Christmas, ragged torn,

carved, discarded, bin-bound waste.

In the farmyard cruelly born

raised for purpose, culled in haste.

 

The ribboned knot of cast-off wrap,

stuffed in plastics killer sack.

An offering up of deadly crap

to fill a void that can't grow back.

 

The joy of peace in frugal life,

of roots in earth as rich as Kings.

Reward borne of a toil through strife

uncoupled from the sum of things.

 

The still content to turn off want

and live a life confined to need,

could be the ever-giving font

that by restraint might stifle greed.