Childhood Christmas

Circa - approximately early to late nineteen sixties, where yours truly found himself surly, particularly compounded if my parents, where Mister and Missus Santa Claus played by Boyce and Harriet Harris respectively failed to purchase for this sole son, thee latest trendy toy, sans whirly gig, gizmo, or fuzzy electric doohickey, BUT NOTHING girly. Translation: Inxs of severe (incurable) envy infected Matthew Scott most pronounced, asper quantity of presents, the gratitude receiving gifts meant diddly squat if I counted less goodies, than either eldest, and/or youngest sister got. This rancor kept under (ahem) wraps though ironically, either sibling oohed and ahed over some fancy shmancy garment with snaps, which this lad feigned ambivalence, indifference, or repugnance toward getup for young chaps. No sooner did the last, (and usually biggest) boxed surprise found these then kiddie fingers tearing into, when thine irritating nasal voice didst rise above the melee "That's all," or some variation on said theme blurted out as "FAKE" real lies already, eagerly, and impatiently anticipating same holiday three hundred and sixty five days, hence unaware how fast "time flies" now this soon to be newly minted sexagenarian eyes, those memories of innocent naiveté, and bliss with sentimental nostalgia (envision: slight moisture around tear ducts), and aye close this poem with reminiscence dabbed with tissue sadness dries.