The clock strikes ten forty-five and my mind’s working harder then bees in a hive
Dreaming of what would be under the tree just sitting there waiting for me
With a devilish-cute grin on my face I slip into the hall with quiet grace
I silently wait filled with glee for St. Nicholas to come down the chimney
But the excitement soon leaves me so I’m tired and sore
And I lay on the ground and I soon start to snore
The next thing I know I awake from my sleep
And just for a moment I’m stricken with grief
For once again I have missed old St. Nick
That cunning old man who knows many tricks
But the sadness passes and is overshadowed by mirth
For now I notice the present pile’s girth
I run for the presents and who should I see
But my own dear father waiting for me
Had he seen Santa I wished to ask
Maybe they knew each other, just perhaps
But just then he grabbed a gift and gave it to me
And with my question forgotten I shouted with glee
And ripped off the wrapping paper to see
Just what Chris Cringle had left for me