The tinsel and the paper-chains
Seem out of time and place,
So down they come,
Stuffed back into bags and boxes,
Stored another fifty weeks,
But not the strings of cards because
Some of those we think we'll keep,
("Oh look, we didn't send them one")
("That one's not FSC, how come?")
A few are put aside 'til later,
To be reborn as tags on wrapping paper,
And then it's done,
Yuletide's dismantled,
Merry undecoration all,
Except the tree with stars and baubles,
It seems quite happy as it is,
I think we'll leave it 'til tomorrow.
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