Three Little Boxes

Three Little Boxes
by Nick Gisburne

It is midnight at Christmas, and under the tree
There are three little boxes, as neat as can be
Tied up tight to the corners, with ribbons and bows
Are the names of three children, to whom we suppose
These are presents from Santa, brought here on his sleigh
For the three little children, this cold Christmas Day

In the garden are criss-crossed the trails of their feet
They have built up their snowmen and each is complete
And the moon like a spotlight bathes all in its glow
And the three little snowmen stand proudly as though
They are three little soldiers, their eyes gleaming bright
In the cold of the winter, the chill of the night

Though the embers are dimming, the coals cooling quick
On the hearth lies old Rover, stretched out on the brick
He had chased the three children and tumbled and rolled
Till at last they had led him inside from the cold
And they fed him and loved him and then as he slept
They had tiptoed away and to bed they all crept

If you peek through the curtains you’ll see him I’ll bet
See the red-breasted robin, not nesting, not yet
Sitting still by the window, who knows what he sees?
Did he notice the reindeer fly over the trees?
Was the robin a witness as Santa flew down
And returned, as he promised he would, to the town?

Yes the eyes of the robin took all of it in
As the man we call Santa approached with a grin
With a sack full of boxes slung over his back
And those jolly red features, the boots big and black
He walked up to the doorway, and there did he stand
With a gleam in his eyes... and a knife in his hand

As he pushed the door open and entered the hall
There was faithful old Rover, who brought him a ball
He could fetch it or chase it, or run for a treat
For a small, tasty morsel, for something to eat
Or as any dog loves, just a stroke of his coat
Santa tickled his chin... and then cut out his throat

It was sudden, no struggle, no effort, no fight
And a life quickly ended on Christmas Eve night
Then he turned and he stood at the foot of the stair
And the robin, still watching, now followed him there
And the smell of the blood at the scene of the crime
Disregarded by Santa, who started to climb

There were seventeen carpeted steps to the top
Before Santa and robin both came to a stop
Then the sack filled with boxes was put to the floor
And he took out just one and brought it to a door
Where the breath of an infant, so small where he slept
Was the signal for Santa, and inside he crept

Though the robin stood watching, he could not go in
Couldn’t witness this madness, this evil, this sin
Into three of the bedrooms the bearded man stole
And whatever his labour, whatever his goal
He took three little boxes, but brought them all back
And each one he then carefully placed in his sack

But the door to one bedroom he left well alone
Only children he visits, this much is well known
And the robin saw Santa step soft on each stair
While the parents, still dreaming, slept on unaware
And with Santa now gone there was no more to see
Just the three little boxes left under the tree

Near the window the robin sits far from his nest
For the blood of this night colours even his breast
The old dog on the hearth lies there dead, not asleep
And the eyes of the snowmen are real, and they weep
For the three little children lie still in their beds
And in three little boxes... are three little heads