Roma Writer's Group

The Works of F. Robert Kelly


'Twas the night before Christmas,
And all through the town,
Not a person was stirring,
There's no one around.

I went to my house,
And back to my bed,
I they were dying,
I knew they were dead.

A seasonal sickness,
Had spread this year,
Taking life over there,
And life over here.

It would start as a cough,
Then as wheeze,
Then sickness would spread,
With every sneeze.

Headaches and fever,
Spewing and pain,
It got into the water,
Via the rain.

The snow got so thick,
It covered the doors,
It stopped the doctors,
From bringing a cure.

I have been busy,
In this town that once rushed,
And now because of the sickness,
All the voices are hushed.

I carry the bodies,
And bury them deep,
I just want their spirits,
To have a restful sleep.

Don't want them to bother me,
Come Christmas morn,
They're all gone now,
No one is eating their corn.

I lift the phone,
And make one last call,
To a disease control centre,
To tell them it all.

Hopefully they'll give,
The food to the poor,
Then I can rest,
And not worry any more.

I hold back a yawn,
As I comb my hair,
I know that soon,
I'll be joining them there.

I lay down to sleep,
Knowing I'll not wake,
A prayer to Jesus,
Are the last syllables I make.

It was a good year,
I know I am right,
So a good Christmas to all,
And to all a good night.

© F R Kelly 1998