That Santa man, he has no hands,
no hands at all, has claws instead,
and slips them in his pockets so,
and keeps them sharp and keen and low,
and when he walks he swishes past,
and when he climbs he's very fast.
And when he comes to your roof top
and sits above the chimney pot,
he laughs and rocks and swings his head,
your fire flares a crimson red.
Your present drops, your lights go dim,
you hear the bells and know it's him.
© Amanda J Harrington 2016