Another blue Christmas; as in seasons of old;
hinders my anticipation of green and red.
As I lie in this lifeless and barren bed
I seek no visions of silver and gold.

No gifts shal I give and I hope none receive.
No fault of a gray heart or rusted locket,
but rather an invisible or empty black pocket.
I must insist that you believe.

Now I've grown older, but when I was young
excitement kept me awake at night.
Now I'm astir tell the morning brings light
with a restless mind of past days better spent
that cause me to echo this tragic lament
with a; not quite or almost; sharp tongue.

Each season my smile is a half smile.
It's never all certain why it's there.
Always reluctant or shy to flare
or bend to the bottom of my ears,
emotion its primary fear.
But soon it will stretch for a mile.

For on Christmas day at church and at house
there's a gift that always descends.
God, family and friends.
And with that no one can frown. Not even a mouse.