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T’was the night before and just down the street there were hungry children with little to eat. They rummaged through dumpsters in search of a bite and tried to stay warm on a bitter cold night.

In homes around them stockings hung with care but in horn-of-plenty wee-ones would not share. These children were dirty, their English stilted, and we who have plenty their parents chided. Knew parents were lazy and that they’d come to receive largesse though entitled to none!

They’d journeyed a distance with only one goal to pick from our pockets our hardest earned gold. We’d see them begging and knew in our hearts that these ragamuffins were just playing part: The part that they played was to earn sympathy so their no good parents honest folks deceive.

Deceive us to giving them our hard earned bread when it was apparent they should work instead. So many shysters who’d just rather beg: No way sharing Shekels with life’s lowest dregs.

The hour was late as climbed between sheets, gave nary a thought to children of streets. They’ve shelters a plenty in which they can lodge; this mendicant nonsense is world’s oldest dodge.

Next morning awakened and switched on my news seems pile of cord-wood was children turned blue. Blue lips and blue fingers and stone cold hearts; tisked and I wondered who’d not done his part.