Joke

Cold descends across the land

Stranger’s benefit, placed in our hand

Although the gift be it a gift

Ne’r could be without the deprived

So shall contrive our depths in strides

And dealing wares of weathered hide

We grit our teeth and pull taut our furs

Empty nests among the firs

Display your teeth to their dismay

The time is now, the sky is gray

Frayed satchel, empty basket

Although shallow, I place my casket

I do of righteous feel abhor

For I am a giver, and nothing more