Scrooge is in his counting house, counting all his money;
Pooh is down at Rabbit’s place, eating all the honey;
Pippa’s singing her sweet song, tripping through the dew;
While I'm still sitting lonely here thinking, dear, of you.
Catherine's up to her old tricks, wandering ‘cross the moors;
Aragorn’s at the black gates, kicking down the doors;
The Mariner still tells his tale of bird and ship and sea;
While I’m still pining, dear, for you. Can’t you pine for me?
Atticus is in the road, sighting down the barrel;
Mary’s Apple Cart Upset left her with Yellow Peril;
Beowulf foams 'cross the waves, plowing the whale road;
While I'm still sending signals, dear, in hopes that you’ll decode.
Poirot strokes his long mustaches, chasing a loose end;
Viola’s dressed like a boy, but it’s just pretend;
Fred and George go out in style, kicking up a fuss
While here we be, still you and me. When will we be us?
©2014 Ruth Buchanan