On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me. . .

Here's a meditation, or something, I wrote last year to commemorate the third day of Christmas--a day to remember the slaughter of The Innocents. The babies of Bethlehem who were butchered for Herod's paranoia.

The Third Day . . .
Don’t strange things happen in threes? Work routine almost reestablished until the order comes in to ride to Bethlehem, swords at the ready. What will I use that Lowe’s gift certificate for? Bust down the doors, yelling "Merry Christmas!"—we live and die for tyrants—let’s hear it for the boys as we gut them, slash and smash them. Oops, did we just kill your daughter, Ma’am? Later, much later, the reports claimed 14,000 dead tonight (the Syrians said 60,000) but I think the number was closer to 20 dead Jew baby boys. And the least I can do is to unplug the tree lights and skip dessert for these, lully lullay, who died in thy stead. A baby boy now on his way to the land of dusty pharaohs.

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