This civilisation,
Its desolate groves,
And its macabre, unreal,
Silence.
This "Welfare exile"
And its abundant
Plentifulness
Are no match indeed
For the Christmas bustle
Back at home.
Hog slaughtering
And the "hog's alms" to follow,
Depressing preparation,
That used to draw as all
Together.
And songs, and carols,
And "Stefan Hrusca" medleys,
And visiting friends,
And "Happy New Year",
Boys and their "Goat Dance"
And going carol-singing
And children in our block,
Wearing their keys hanging
To their necks,
And cheering, and shivering,
On stairs.
Could this all come true again?
I want my Christmas back!
At home!
