water on the forehead
of a tortured prisoner dropping;
Each
is another day on which he has done no Christmas shopping.
At
this point the Devil whispers that if he puts it off until Christmas
Eve the
shops will be emptier,
A
thought that which nothing could be temptier,
But
Christmas Eve finds him bedridden with a fever of nearly
ninety-nine degrees,
and swaddled in blankets up to his neck,
So
on Christmas morn he has nothing for Mrs. Revere but a kiss and
a check,
Which
somehow works out fine, because she enjoys being kissed
And
the check is a great comfort when she sits down on December
26th to compile her next year’s list.”—Ogden Nash (1902-1971),
“All’s Noel That Ends Noel: Or,
Incompatibility is the Spice of Christmas,” in Christmas at The New Yorker: Stories, Poems, Humor, and Art, from the Editors of The New Yorker (2003)
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