Don’t Call On Me

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Cold winds blow through city streets

as winter’s grip takes hold

and grey souls in downbeat worlds

retreat to lies untold.

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Rain-lashed pavements now are bare,

the forecast speaks of snow,

but in grim northern climates

an oasis starts to glow.

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Christmas days are here once more,

those warm enchanting times.

Chance to cast off gloomy dawns,

relive those joyful climes.

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But don’t call on me, Saint Nicholas,

just pass me by this year.

Life’s been good to me again,

no cause to shed a tear.

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An old girl who lives by me

would welcome your next call.

She’s seen no kin for ages,

no faces to enthral.

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I saw a child in council care,

a broken, battered waif.

A visit from such as you

would prove to him he’s safe.

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A homeless girl in hospital

gave birth to a damaged boy.

She has no one to show the way,

your smile may bring her joy.

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A sad young man walks the streets,

no one has time for stares.

Would you please take hold his hand

and show him someone cares?

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Winter’s chill now stalks the land,

those dark foreboding clouds,

though Christmas cheer brings happiness

to Man’s enduring crowds.

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Please call on me, Saint Nicholas,

next year, around this time.

I may be a grey-faced one

in need of love sublime.

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