Parade of the Wooden Soldiers
Stiff as starch,
the captains march,
and the maids, they are a-winking.
Snow falls down
upon the crown,
for the Lord, he is a-drinking.
On the field,
bands will not yield,
though they are for sure a-stinking.
Overhead,
He’s stricken dead
for what He has a-been a-thinking.
Father knows
they’ll come to blows.
Their sabers will be a-clinking.
Peace on Earth?
Good will? A dearth.
For the Lord, he is a-missing.
God is dead
’cept in the heads
of the armies still a-fighting.
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