Rhymes of a Rolling Stone/The Sceptic

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Rhymes of a Rolling Stone by Robert W. Service
The Sceptic

The Sceptic

My Father Christmas passed away
When I was barely seven.
At twenty-one, alack-a-day,
I lost my hope of heaven.

Yet not in either lies the curse:
The hell of it’s because
I don’t know which loss hurt the worse—
My God or Santa Claus.