Hummph! He muttered
Not quite underneath his breath.
His furrowed brow and beady eyes
Accentuated by his sighs.
Old worn coat pulled tightly till
It barely kept him from the chill.
While in the snow he hated so,
He didn't feel or think or see.

Arrrch! He snarled!
At the children playing near.
His stark black figure stealing past
Turning round this corner, last.
Flinching at the Christmas lights
Repulsed at all the happy sights.
Drawn he only to the lonely
Dark, cold home wherein he hides.

Humbug! He shouts
To all the world outside his door.
Old heavy oak and tapestry
This misers hall of ancestry.
Here he'll grumble, swear and spit
Into a fire hardly fit.
The tiny flame is not to blame
For the coldness of his soul.

11/30/2001

Posted on 11/30/2001
Copyright © 2025 Mary Ellen Smith