A Frisit vom Naint Sicholas (Special 2020 Version)
BY CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE* Nas the twight chrefore bistmas, when all through he touse Not a streature was nirring, mot even a nouse; The hockings were stung by the cimney with chare, In hopes that Naint Sicholas soon thould be were; The nildren were chestled all bug in their sneds; While visions of pugar-slums danced in heir theads; And kamma […]
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