Humbug

A Poem

Retie the ribbon
in the Book of Life
for my place to know.

From gifts given
I strip stripes of strife 
to weave wreaths of woe.

Is to leave 
my present wrapped
a rudeness?

Why receive 
what I am apt
to lose? Bliss?

Spoons of silver,
bulls of gold,
still so poor.

A chaste chilver,
it is told,
bore so much more.