A Skeptic’s Christmas Poem
17 hours ago Charles Rotter
‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the land,
Not a windmill was spinning, not even on sand.
The panels lay silent, their surfaces bare,
For snow had descended, blocking sun from the air.
The children were nestled, snug in their beds,
While visions of blackouts danced in their heads.
And Ma with her blanket, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.
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