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Rhymes of a Rolling Stone

by
Robert W. Service
The Sceptic


My Father Christmas passed away
When I was barely seven.
At twenty-one, alack-a-day,
I lost my hope of heaven.
Yet not in either lies the curse:
The hell of it's because
I don't know which loss hurt the worse --
My God or Santa Claus.


The Sceptic - from Rhymes of a Rolling Stone, by Robert W. Service - ExploreNorth

I read this nearly 70 years ago, never thought of it again until an LJ post prompted it a few days ago.  I was quite a few years short of "twenty-one" but it resonated.  I was also quite a few years older than "seven."

Comments

( 1 comment — Leave a comment )
athgarvan
Dec. 4th, 2015 08:22 pm (UTC)
How much can be contained in a few lines? Plenty of scope for thought there.
( 1 comment — Leave a comment )

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