The Sceptic - from Rhymes of a Rolling Stone, by Robert W. Service
Rhymes of a Rolling Stone
by
Robert W. Service
The Sceptic
My Father Christmas passed away
When I was barely seven.
At twenty-one, alack-a-day,
I lost my hope of heaven.
Yet not in either lies the curse:
The hell of it's because
I don't know which loss hurt the worse --
My God or Santa Claus.
The Sceptic - from Rhymes of a Rolling Stone, by Robert W. Service - ExploreNorth
I read this nearly 70 years ago, never thought of it again until an LJ post prompted it a few days ago. I was quite a few years short of "twenty-one" but it resonated. I was also quite a few years older than "seven."
by
Robert W. Service
The Sceptic
My Father Christmas passed away
When I was barely seven.
At twenty-one, alack-a-day,
I lost my hope of heaven.
Yet not in either lies the curse:
The hell of it's because
I don't know which loss hurt the worse --
My God or Santa Claus.
The Sceptic - from Rhymes of a Rolling Stone, by Robert W. Service - ExploreNorth
I read this nearly 70 years ago, never thought of it again until an LJ post prompted it a few days ago. I was quite a few years short of "twenty-one" but it resonated. I was also quite a few years older than "seven."