Lift up our best feelings as an oblation,
put up decorations on the lawn,
doll up all the house-fronts like Greek virgins for the killing,
and put some sentimental music on.
Little silver stars up in the firmament;
below, a technicolor pantheon:
Santa and his reindeer and Holy Mother Mary
and the child whom all existence waits upon.
Should the strength of our wishes falter —
should our traditions fail,
our paychecks bounce,
our families fall apart —
at least he's out there in the yard somewhere,
not in our houses yet, but not so very far.