The arctic air is dry and cold and o'er my head, Polaris, bold. My team of dogs is primed to go,. He's smile at me, or so I'm told.
We travel over drifts of snow, a muted white in moonlight's glow. I sense his fireplace, warmth and cheer, a spot of snapps, then steaming joe.
Oh yes, I smell that smoke from here. his shop behind this hill, so near. I'll grasp and clasp his beard and jaws, and he'll present his eight reindeer.
I once did doubt, my faith had flaws. To say his name might bring guffaws. But I believe without a pause. Why my applause? He's Santa Claus!
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