Will cook themselves, whatever's roasting:
'Plague on't!' you wish the paltry elves
Would 'keep their presents to themselves.'
And so for once I catch you tripping,—
You long again for joints and dripping.
Would I be called on of a sudden
To make a plaguy 'sparra' pudden?'
I say at once, then, downright "No!
I'd see'em all at Jericho!"
And if they grumble, then give warning,