Scrooge

In the dim glow of an old‑fashioned streetlamp,
Mr Scrooge shuffles with his brass‑trimmed coat,
His eye a fraction dimmer than a rabbit‑stomach lamp,
And his knuckles clutch the ledger’s brittle note.

He passes the pub where the night‑owl sips tea,
The murmur of laughter blurs beneath pipes,
He mutters “Spending, spending, what a spree!
No credit card or anything to swipe.”

On a midnight crow, a cold wind knocks,
Ghost‑towns of debt appear with a hissing sigh,
The former buisnessmen at his side__—a mere chuck —
They wave away in a flash of née and feigned lie.

With each wooden tick of the audacious hand
The old man sees pennies in a puddle of brown,
“Who are you?” he demands, in a broken brand
Of his own inebriated own strange town.

The first spirit nods, the green, the coin‑tinklers,
He is lost, seeing a cream‑of‑tea dream at last,
And the glimmer of winter, at his feet, a spark‑ringers,
His wits are the dawn that breaks the frost moustache‑past.

By morning, the sentiment revives the hamper,
He raises a glass; his heart's colour bright and won,
From tight‑fisted scouter to generous champ,
He tastes the fizz, his soul drifts to the sun.

When the bells clang through the market cobbles,
The old man knows that in a fairy‑fair wrong impossibly,
He trusts that his labour is ballads and not gobbles,
‘Tis Christmas that heals, no ghost brings it.