But only from himself. King John was not a good man, Yet had his hopes and fears. They’d given him no present now For years and years and years. But every year at Christmas, While minstrels stood about, Collecting tribute from the young For all the songs they might have sung, He stole away upstairs and hung A hopeful stocking out.
King John was not a good man, He lived his life aloof; Alone he thought a message out While climbing up the roof. He wrote it down and propped it Against the chimney stack: “TO ALL AND SUNDRY—NEAR AND FAR— F. CHRISTMAS IN PARTICULAR.” And signed it not “Johannes R.” But very humbly, “JACK.” “I want some crackers, And I want some candy; I think a box of chocolates Would come in handy; I don’t mind oranges, I do like nuts! And I SHOULD like a pocket-knife That really cuts. And, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all, Bring me a big, red, india-rubber ball!”
King John was not a good man— He wrote this message out, And gat him to his room again, Descending by the spout. And all that night he lay there, A prey to hopes and fears. “I think that’s him a-coming now.” (Anxiety bedewed his brow.) “He’ll bring one present, anyhow— The first I’ve had for years.” “Forget about the crackers, And forget about the candy; I’m sure a box of chocolates Would never come in handy; I don’t like oranges, I don’t want nuts, And I HAVE got a pocket-knife That almost cuts.
