Christmas Box

When routinely exacerbated, the worn infliction
Finds shelter in elevated levels of diction
With the rattle of an empty alms box
Those driven from the hovel, are born of the fox
Light stomachs lead light hands
Then time will see to the burden of demands

Where the soul of the humble dwells
There is salt for the sidewalks of ne’er-do-wells
If ever a long shadow cast falls to soil
Ivory may only be tainted with noble toil
Today is the day, The Feast of Saint Stephen
The field has been tilled and the ground made even
One day, a sole reminder of services dear
For three hundred and sixty five each year

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