(By Our Own Dismal Dyspeptic.)
Oh, Christmas is a season when this melancholy earth
Has to put on the appearance of ungovernable mirth—
a chuckle for your ordinary sigh,
And you give each other presents that you can't afford to buy—
When the little boys with snowballs are so shockingly unkind,
And improve on the occasion to attack you from behind—
When the mistletoe its terrors at the bashful person hurls,
And you have to kiss a number of unpleasant-looking girls!
Oh, Christmas is a season when the children make a row,