Cash ready to blow
in the stores through which you’ll stray.
Forking over dough—
seasonal mainstay.
Bells of Salvation ring
under the streetlights.
Sidewalks a glistening rink
of snow that’s transformed to ice.

Those silver bells, silver bells
jingling away.
Might be dumped if you should slide
on your course that’s an iceway.
Silver bells ringing well
beyond the highway.
You’ll be dumping lots of bucks
as through the nose you will pay.

Through the city you go,
among the crushing tide
of folks who plan to buy
gifts as through streets they glide.
They first clean out their bank
accounts so can be bought
gifts for giftees that might give thanks.
Then again, they might not.

If gifts go well, it is swell.
If not, you’re to blame
Then they’re dumped…
a return ride to the store from which they came.
It ain’t swell, gifting hell,
giving you dismay.
You’ll be grumpy, feeling snide
and sore they go the store way.

But until back they go,
you’re feeling pretty well.
Lights scintillate on snow
that just recently fell.
As you are walking by,
boots snow-crunching on the way.
You’re hoping that the stuff you buy
will make giftees laugh and play.

Now you feel alright
as through snow you crunch.
Even the stoplights
make you pleased as punch.
Night before treasure day,
along gift-buyers speed.
You feel that someone might say,
“This isn’t what I need!”

Both silver bells, gifting hell
have left a bad taste
in your mouth, once smiling wide;
now a frown is in its place.
Gifts are quelled, though it’s well
you meant as you raced
through the stores—now you’re denied.
Your rancor is not misplaced.