Christmas comes but once a year

and I have had my share, I fear

seventy seven to be precise

with memories of sugar mice

making yards of paper chains

hoping for snow not drizzly rain

eating nuts and iced Christmas cake

Hoping that Santa was kind and not fake

(scared cause I knew I had not been good)

hoping for money in my serve of plum pud

sherry and cream and hot mince pies

eating was constant but not too wise

Christmas in Oz with the hot sun burning

bikini clad cook cold recipes learning

and all through the years, the trials and tears

the turbulent world with escalating fears

The fires and the pestilence, the damaging floods

the countries war torn and covered in blood

here am I in my seventy seventh year

glad I am healthy and that I’m still here

Lucky and hopeful and full of good cheer

counting my blessings, those I hold dear