Whose house this is I think I know.
He’s in the debtors’ prison, though.
He spent his wad,
And now—O God!
Re-claimers come with vans in tow!
His little kids must think it queer
At Christmas with their Dad not near.
They give their stockings gentle shakes
To see if there’s been weird mistakes.
The telephone will ring, they say—
Calls from collectors on their way.
No one will see us stopping here
The saddest day of any year
When Santa packs up all those toys
Meant for Dad’s dear girl and boys.
Promissory notes we mean to keep,
So we can have a gentle sleep—
Not bury us with heaps of debt
And greet the New Year with regret.
I have my promises to keep
By writing checks before I sleep
To keep the creditors at bay
And live to see a better day.
And live to see a better day.
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