PHYLLIS MCGINLEY
When little boys are able
To comprehend the flaws
In their December fable
And part with Santa Claus,
Although I do not think they grieve,
How burningly they disbelieve!
They cannot wait, they cannot rest
For knowledge nibbling at the breast.
They cannot rest, they cannot wait
To set conniving parents straight.
Branding that comrade as a dunce
Who trusts the Saint they trusted once,
With rude guffaw and facial spasm
They publish their iconoclasm,
And find particularly shocking
The thought of hanging up a stocking.
But little girls (no blinder
When faced by mortal fact)
Are cleverer and kinder
And brimming full of tact.
The knowingness of little girls
Is hidden underneath their curls.
Obligingly, since parents fancy
The season’s tinsel necromancy,
They take some pains to make pretense
Of duped and eager Innocence.
Agnostics born but Bernhardts bred,
They hang the stocking by the bed,
Listen for bells, and please their bette
By writing Kringle lengthy letters,
Only too well aware the fruit
Is shinier plunder, richer loot.
For little boys are rancorous
When robbed of any myth,
And spiteful and cantankerous
To all their kin and kith.
But little girls who draw conclusions
Make profit of their lost illusions.
1948