Winter 2001, 2002, 2003....
In a small house on this block
There is a tree and a horse which rocks,
Lots of presents wrapped with bows,
And on the mantle stockings in rows.
Each stocking is stuffed with toys and such,
Every belly full when all have eaten too much;
And I look at my child, who has no socks;
I have a Santa who laughs and mocks.
Down this street the homes have heat,
There's music playing with a lovely beat,
So much laughter you can feel all the joy,
With a new doll for the girl; boxing gloves for the boy.
I look at the face of the child holding my hand,
How can I expect her to understand---
That I'd do anything to fill her with food;
I'd sell my soul if it would do any good.
My child knows no laughter; only tears.
My child knows no solace; only fear.
For my child I have no toy, nor stocking,
And the Santa I know is only mocking.
With my holiday comes snow and rain,
Bitter winds; fingers numb with pain.
We have no home to call our own,
No roof for shelter over our head,
No pillow, no blanket, no bread, no bed.
My child shivers. I hold her close.
I look to God; praying for what I pray most.
Let Santa bring to my child a sock,
Let Santa not be someone who mocks;
Just some food---a few slices of roast---
A home with heat like the one down this block;
A home like the one with the horse that rocks.