A Sonnet For Santa Claus, Who Hates Jesus, But Likes When You Buy Things

With the foulest blasphemy on my lips (It was you above King David's city), While snow does your old countenance eclipse, My winter's heart stirs in you naught but pity. Oh, you need not wield a weapon of cold, Nor keep your cruel features marbled and iced, No fetters needed, for your speech is bold As your word denies the birth of Lord-Christ. From your frozen mouth drop secrets to keep, And your unlovely hands trace afoul of cheer, Your eyes, mirror'd in new December deep, No tears from you, should Yuletide disappear. Yet in raiment of red your body is dressed, And within nothing, you find you are blessed.