by Dennis Shea
Most of my old friends are dead,
It looks like the mistletoe
Was hung by Edgar Allan Poe,
And ol' Santa broke two runners
Off his empty sled.
Mom ain't got a job,
And Dad's too big a slob
To get one,
The tiny apartment is cold and crowded and dark;
Maybe we can move into that paradise,
That Occupy Detroit park.
There's bells in the lobby here,
Somebody's crazy, noisy hobby,
They ring like gunfire New Year's Eve,
Keep us awake all silent night long.
And the city put up
Two dozen lit-up Christmas trees
Where Hudson's used to be;
It's a safe bet an office there
Or any useful building
We'll never see.
Of course, the holidays end so soon,
The shopping and jingles cease,
The stony savior in the manger goes
And we finally get some heav'nly peace.