The Mighty Viking

Once upon a Christmas dreary, children screaming, getting teary

Over several bright and glossy tomes of merchandise galore

While they prodded, nearly popping, seemingly there was no stopping

From without there came a hopping, hopping at my chamber door.

“‘tis some visitor,” I muttered, “hopping at my chamber door.

Not my children I adore.”

Ah distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate credit card wrought its ghost upon my door

Eagerly I wished the ‘morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow

From my bank surcease of sorrow -sorrow for the lost cash flow

For the rare and radiant paycheck, whom the angels named “cash-flow”

Nameless here for evermore

Ah, so softly did they succor, whine and made their brows to pucker

So they played me for a sucker, crying, sighing all the more

So that now to still the beating of my heart I stood repeating

“‘Tis the season to be giving, giving all to help the poor.”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the words, “the poor?”

This I heard, and then much more.

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so sharply spoken,

”Doubtless,” said I, “what they utter is their only stock and store,

Caught from some grim advertisement warning shrill that woe and lament

Follows fast and follows faster if its warnings they ignore

Till the dirges of their languish blend with howls of needless anguish

Yea, of sadness, evermore.

But the children still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

wheedled sweetly through the doorway, child and merchandise galore;

Then, upon the bedpost sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what these anguished children bore–

What this ghastly advertisement meant in croaking “You need more!”

Always this, and always more.

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the kids whose teary eyes now burned into my bosom‘s core;

This and more they cried beseeching, in my head I pondered preaching

On the notion that their leeching brings upon us creditors

Creditors whose endless screeching rails upon my chamber door

Rails upon me, evermore!

But the children, never flinching, still are sitting, still are clinching

So my answer had no meaning—little relevancy bore;

Not the least concession made they; not a minute stopped or stayed they

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched before my chamber door–

Perched and wailed their mournful tale to me behind my chamber door–

Perched, and wailed, and little more.

Presently my soul grew meeker, hesitating, much the weaker

“Child”, said I, “or demons, truly your forgiveness I implore

Now I sense my purpose clearly, clearly as in days of yore

Darkest night and plaintive sobbing grants me wisdom lost before

Peace on earth, good will toward parents comes from merchandise galore.”

With installments, evermore!