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NO PRESENTOne year Santa did not come My uncle sent me a fishing pole Grandma a knitted glove Mom a warm winter jacket But that for a boy of nine was essentials But Santa Clause left nothing I was crushed--Mom knew my hurt She said, "Trust me Dandy, there is a reason." Two days later we were taking the tree down There under the tree was my special gift A world bike, you know, light in front Big solid black wheels, a carrier in back All the other kids had three speed things My bike you could sail down the hill with no hands Mom had found it rusting in the dump For days they painted, oiled, made it almost new Though it was indeed a relic from World War Two It went everywhere with me--once pushed through a snow storm I was never without my World bike--Best present ever It had been painted and made new with loving hands Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades Vote for this poem
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