Rife With Idiosyncrasies Poem by Charles Hancock

His hibernaculum served him well
It was his rock, his bastion, his citadel
A dried up wreath hung on the door
He was his own prisoner of war

With hopes and dreams withered away
He just lives for the today
Occasionally he'll find his repose
Thumbing through old photos

Recalling Christmas days of the past
When friends and family amassed
To delight in the yuletide soiree
While elves made ready Santa's sleigh

Christmas cookies once made by hand
In another time and another land
Extinct is fellowship and good cheer
Disappeared with eight flying reindeer

Consigned to oblivion by his clan
And reduced to a lonely old man
Each year he adorns two tiny trees
He is a man rife with idiosyncrasies