The children stretch
The arm
In the big farm,
And they fetch
Their breath without harm
To catch the star
At the top of the fir,
Like behind the bar
A prisoner wanting to stir
A warder or an inmate
To try to change his fate,
But as for merry Christmas
The presents are given
At the end of the mass.
The releases are gotten,
At the end when the crass
Becomes civilian and polite
And does not bite
Anymore
Even a sycamore.