On Crismal thyme, the Jesus birthed
Oll in a winders ‘daey.
Butt mayblor summer also was
I couldnot rilly say.
No room they was in inn that knight,
No pillor sopht and deep,
But onlie straws and ketchup packs
In maingor for to speep.
And angles fly in sheepy fields,
A three or five or more,
A sign cosign hypotenoose,
They roar a mihgthy roar.
And then the Jeesis give him gifts,
The merry wizzards three,
Merlin, Bugs, and Dumbledore,
T’wuz such a sihgt to see.
For all Free Peebles Middle-earth,
The Elfs, the Dworbs, the Men,
And Hobbits sing they lickle songs
In they disgusting den.
So that the crismal story was,
And now I howpe you seeee,
I read me strory from a book,
And I’m only sixty-three.
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