Religion is the opiate
of the people,
said Marx.
I can never remember
which one said it.
Not Harpo, I suppose.
He was too sweet natured
and angelic,
hence the harp.

It must have been either
Chico or Groucho
who gave us
that little nugget.

Anyway, I decided
to take his advice
for Christmas. So I dropped
by the flea market on Maple.
The one that sells old
Chinese opium pipes
along with chipped dishes,
scratched Lawrence Welk albums,
and tattered comic books.
Even the most subversive
of things wind up on
a dusty shelf
sooner or later.
In a hundred years
you'll be able
to buy a nuke
at the army navy store.

Then I went downtown
and found a likely looking guy.
Big beard.
Bizarre clothing,
hanging out on a street corner,
making music
with a single bell,
and planning on giving away
the money.
(Definitely an antisocial type.)

He seemed puzzled by my request
at first,
but guys like that
have seen it all.
He promised delivery
on the morning of the twenty-fifth.

Things being tough
all he asked for was
a cup of hot cocoa,
and some cookies.

So, anyway,
if he comes through, drop on by,
and we'll get all religiousy
for the holidays.