The bones of the Bishop were rotting
In the cold, still earth
Waiting for the final days
And a miracle of rebirth.
His body was taken from the ground
Magic bones for the masses:
St. Nick in your stocking
The way of Christmas’ Past.
His bones ended nestled in a church
Endowed with magic power
But not a source of Christmas cheer
No matter what the hour.
His bones were commercialized
Shades of Christmases to be
So! a toast to grave robbers
And to a saints memory!
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