My Christmas stocking hangs in hope,
Upon the fireplace over there;
Limply dangling by a small rope,
Wherein sugar plum dreams I dare.
Yes, on the mantle adorning,
Although empty is my stocking;
I am hoping that by morning,
Santa will have come a knocking.
Yet, as at the ashes I poke,
It’s tough keeping this childlike face,
For so much has gone up in smoke,
Till ironic seems this fireplace.
But where else would I hang my hope;
For alas it is Christmas Eve;
And like stockings hung by a rope,
In tomorrow I must believe.
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