The Gifts
A pauper brings his simple gift,
the saint his hour of need.
A sinner brings his soul adrift,
the Boss brings only greed.
A child is born upon the thorn
of blossom and decay.
A life is made for life forlorn,
one gift to light the way.
A poet brings his ragged smile,
the king his plague and flood.
A sinner brings his twisted mile,
the Boss brings only blood.
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