TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // The Dead Child. by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

Life to her was a perfect flower,
And every petal a jeweled hour,
Till all at once–we know not why–
God sent a frost from His clear blue sky.

Life to her was a fairy rune;
Her light feet tripped to the lilting tune,
Till all at once–we know not why–
God stopped th’ enchanting melody.

Life to her was a picture book
That her glad eyes searched with eager look
Till all at once–we know not why–
God put the wondrous volume by.

Public Domain Poetry

100 WORD SKITTLE // 2021

“No, I won’t have a Happy New Year!” she declared defiantly.

Santa shrugged. “As you wish.”

The child swung her legs restlessly as he scratched his long white beard in contemplation.

“How crappy would you like it to be then?”

Her legs stopped. She began to squirm on Santa’s knee, fixing him with a quizzical eye.

“Oh, you’d like it to be agonisingly bad?” Santa lifted her off. “I understand, child. And you can stop creasing up my magic pants.” He placed the girl on the store carpet. “The elves spent all night ironing them out, you know!”

Wish granted!

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