A Christmas Wish (amended)
An old and very warm fuzzy wuzzy Christmas wish
In the darkest season of his reason
When even justice in art is not justified
Where goes the mind of man?
Where but in fancy, does he anchor his faculty?
Madness begins to unthread the fabric of his soul
And Satan’s angel becomes his doctor:
The cause in one hand, and the cure in the other.
Smile on me angel, a beggar, pimp, and prostitute;
I have left no soul to sell, nothing in my heart,
But pain of being; have you a gift for me?
Offer it, before my conscience has time to betray,
And give reason for my darkest season.