My father really is Santa Claus
Who can weave any kind of magic
Out of his sweet thumpy paws!
He smells like a gum rose so divine
And has now given up all evil wine.
He only counts for me and honeys
And makes potloads of infinite money.
He brings home the honey and the bread
And is never losing me to any regret or dread.
He is always by my side in this immortal life
And has never really known what is strife.
He lives with all the shirties thunny
And calls me his mishti doi honey.
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