bob the bum's christmas

bob was a bum his brain was in a constant hum from drinking whiskey wine and gin o what a state they left him in he was in for the long haul and did stumble trip and fall from tijuana to bangor maine landing on sidewalks feeling no pain no barroom light was e'er so dim as not to shine through fog to him and he would crawl on hands and knees through their doorways, if need be up to the rail he would slink hoping some kind stranger would buy him a drink but since the truth can not be hid hardly anyone ever did so, if the tale can be believed bob found himself on christmas eve in west new york - or was it hackensack? looking up at snowflakes as he lay on his back and every flake was a memory of all that he had hoped to be and as they piled up on his face he thought he heard a far off trace of a happy song of long ago through the more rapidly falling snow and then amidst the wintry whirl he spied the face of a little girl the little match girl - no surprise and then before his wondering eyes the little drummer boy appeared then st peter with his long white beard the ghostly trio cleared their throats st peter and the girl struck notes on harps that they had brought along - the three began to sing a song "since this christmas may be your last let us sing of good times past before the crackling family fire before your straits were not so dire when end of year brought promise bright and happy children's pure delight at presents purchased with honest wages you laughed at winter's furious rages - " the song went on, the words grew faint but on the wind he heard the plaint of a little girl at a tavern door crying "daddy, daddy, please no more come home before you spend all your pay" yes, that was the song of yesterday now he was tired - oh so tired - beneath the snow the bum expired