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Show A LETTER TO SANTA CLAUS. 1 Dear Santa: I When my name you reach on your list, I Glance over these few lines, I beg, from my fist. 1 In packing my bundle, please kindly omit The usual slippers so sure not to fit. No neckties, I beg you; those gay loud affairs That none but the coon and tinhorn gambler wears. I've scarf pins so numerous such as they are To fill up a showcase in Cheap John's Bazaar. Cut out the moustache cup; the hair on my Hp I use to strain grounds from the coffee I sip. No pipe, if you really prize my esteem; I've a bushel on hand and that's no pipey dream. No Christmas cigars, sir. Your last weed antiques Caused my house to be quarantined seven long' weeks. I am over-supplied with cuff buttons and studs, And steins yet undamped with brewery suds. I don't want a shaving set, hair comb and brush, Nor smoke-jacket trimmed with green velvet or plush. I've now pocket diaries enough stored away, Unscratched by a pencil, to load a big dray. Indeed, you have nothing at all in your stock 'Twould tempt me to hang up a sllk-'broidercd sock. Just give what's intended for me, old fel., To some measly cuss you don't like very well. You'll find when you light on my shack's humble dome The chimney plugged up and nobody at homo. James Barton Adams. |