As this I write, I know not plans for us
This Christmas Day. Will Jackson beckon o’r
New car to smooth the way in fast-paced rush?
Or will we have a joyous time, home lair?
Where ere we spend the day, my Sweet’, with you
It will be joy to me, indeed, alway’
I ne’r regret o’r time alone, nor rue
The place we stay, my dear, my Sweet’, I say.
I love the rituals we enjoy oft’ times.
O’r kiss, o’r hug, o’r game we play with toes.
Toes tender mine are much in risk of pain.
The line I cross when hug we do in rows—
On carpet beige, to tease—this much I deign.
Know, Sweet’, that lov’d ye be in deepest way.
I bless the day first write to me ye did.