By John McNeil
The old man sits upon his throne, and wipes away a tear,
For once again the sadness grips him like it did last year.
The holly and the bells don't help, nor lights around the den.
You see, he's got the trappings, but Santa has no children.
From dawn to dusk the merry man will cuddle girls and boys.
They clamber up into his lap and order hordes of toys.
They whisper little secrets, too, into his willing ear,
And they pull his whispers, rubbing sticky fingers in his hair.
They call him Father Christmas, but that only gives him pain,
For he's never met them up till now, and doubtless won't again.
The ho-ho-ho's a hollow shell that hides a lonely heart.
He cannot give a child real love, he simply plays a part.
A cuddle's not relationship. If a child's life is stained,
All his ho-ho-ho-ing doesn't take away the pain.
If he says it doesn't matter, still a child's not forgiven,
For Father Christmas doesn't hold the keys to life and heaven.
The kids who climb upon his knee, or peep into his sack,
Don't know how much they're missing, or what it is they lack.
They love him only for his gifts - they do not want the man.
And he can't tell them of the gift that God the Father planned.
For a sack is not a manger, and God's Son's not found within.
A fairy can't announce Good News unto a world of sin.
There's no salvation in a sleigh for those who seek a star there.
And Santa has no children - and his children have no father.
© John McNeil 1998
All rights reserved
This poem may be performed free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged.
In exchange for free performance, the author would appreciate being notified of when and for what purpose the play is performed.
He may be contacted at: email@example.com
Or at: 36B Stourbridge St, Christchurch 8024, New Zealand.