In the darkest hour of Christmas Eve,
When Santa Claus has been and gone,
Only the ghosts of the past remain,
Drenched in misery and forlorn.
Reminisces of a Christmas past,
That chill, the blood with woeful fright,
Play silent dirge to a heart's lament,
In the silent shadow of the night.
Fears run their spinal course,
Send shuffled memoirs of faded account,
The pages torn and disorganized,
The contents mocked in defiant flout.
Yet still the past creeps coldly upon,
The staunchest denial of ghostly realm,
And still the spirit chills the bones,
With etched memories of silent film.
I am your ghost from Christmas past,
Yet you say you don't remember me?
Ah, but oh how much, I remember you,
For 'twas you who were the death of me.
Me thinks you know fine well who I am,
I sense the fear that you hold in your heart,
But I do not return seeking vengeance,
And you can rest yourself assured by that.
My return is but a warning, Sir,
That I may remind you of but one thing,
That if your ways should remain unmended,
They'll sing your psalm this Christmastime.
Now I must leave this, your dream,
For I hear the peal of Christmas bells,
I leave you with your choice to make...
Choose wisely, my friend, choose well.