The halflings' merry curse makes its return,
their charity a whiff of cookie dough
when coal is all that some of us have earned.

A time of gathering and morals spurned,
enough halfnog to turn our thinking slow,
the halflings' merry curse makes its return.

Trees stoop their boughs to those who'd see them burn-
an army running errands for their foes
when coal is all that some of them have earned.

We tuck away distaste with season's turn
and gorge our empty selves with sugared snow,
the halflings' merry curse makes its return.

I speak for those of us who feel concern
when asked to fill the stockings of the low,
when coal is all that some of you have earned.

I raise my mug to those who can discern,
unblinded by the tinsel and the snow.
I hope to see the naughty list return
when coal is all that some of us have earned.

Penned by my hand on the 5th of Miraman, in the year 964 AF.