‘Twas the day before Christmas here in Winter Park,
And the birds were all singing, yes, even a lark
Who’d flown a long journey to flee from the snow
And not until spring to her home would she go.
Just now in our back yard their squabbling is raucous,
Something more dire than a politic caucus;
It must be a cat who’s meandering through
Having scaled down our fence to cause such ado.
Now quiet’s returned, except overhead
Where descending airplanes roust sleepers from bed.
The day is fast brightening; the sun’s rising higher
And rousting to action each last-minute buyer
Who forgot Uncle Oscar or kindly Aunt Tilly
And almost agrees with Scrouge: Christmas is silly.