ORIGIN OF SPECIES By Phyllis McGinley + Nicholas, Bishop of Myra’s see, Was holy a saint As a saint could be; Saved not a bit Of his worldly wealth And loved to commit Good deeds by stealth. + Was there a poor man, Wanting a roof? Nicholas sheltered him weatherproof. Who lacked a morsel Had but to ask it And at his door-sill Was Nicholas’ basket. + O, many a basket did he carry. Penniless girls Whom none would marry Used to discover to their delight, Into their windows Tossed at night (When the moon was old And the dark was showry), Bags of gold Enough for a dowry. + People, I read, Grew slightly lyrical, Calling each deed He did, a miracle. Told how he calmed the sea for sailors And rescued children From awful jailors Who, drawing lots For the foul design, Liked pickling tots In pickle brine. + Nicholas, circa Fourth cent. A.D., Died in the odor of sanctity. But fortune changes, Blessings pass, And look what’s happened to Nicholas. + He who had loathed The world’s applause Now, with a beard, Is Santa Claus. A multiplied elf, he struts and poses, Ringing up sales In putty noses; With Comet and Cupid His constant partners, Telling tall tales to kindergart’ners, His halo fickle as Wind and wave. + While, dizzily, Nicholas Spins in his grave.
Posted on: Sat, 06 Dec 2014 16:34:12 +0000
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