The Humbug
When you see sugarplum reindeer pulling, a chocolate Santa in a golden sleigh It may have not been the dragée little protégée when you dance with a ginger man, at his house when three Christmases, become a nightmarish hole, made of marshmallows. It may have not been the snort of whiskey, in a mug where fairies, spirits or witches have their way dreams and your papaw becomes grampus hell bent like Krampus it may have not been the dragée little protégée it may have not been the snort of whiskey, in a mug but you were bitten by a little thing called, the humbug
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