• The Eyes of the Incredulous stare blankly at the ceiling.
    It's Christmas Eve, at 2 AM, but with no such jolly feeling.
    Samuel, an insomniac, a small boy, and a skeptic,
    Sees no need for Santa Claus, no needs for Christmas, hectic.
    And from this perspective, what happened sent his whole mind-a reeling.

    Undoubtedly too soon, the twelve-year-old had deemed himself
    Quite rigidly and stubbornly, too old to believe in the Christmas Elf,
    I am, he had thought, Beyond the limits of such fantasies,
    Just right, he inquired, it seems, he decided, for disbelief.
    And he left the idea, forgotten, on his mind's inner shelf.

    And so, in useless attempts to sleep,
    The insomniac boy starts counting sheep.
    He'd counted one and two and three and four--
    Then thump! The boots sounded off the floor.
    With that, the mystery begins to seep.

    Curious, so curious, the boy rolled over, leaping out of bed.
    He quietly, so quietly, walked up the stairs, wary where he tread.
    He made no noise, no sudden moves, watching from his spot.
    And as it was, he saw his man, the culprit that he sought.
    As he gazed, Samuel stopped, as his legs had went quite dead.

    Large, he was, the man o'er by the fireplace.
    He wore a big red suit, a matching hat, a gentle look upon his face.
    The man was taking things from a sack, and placing them near the tree.
    As the parcels were left there, Samuel thought, Are those for me?
    Possible, he thought, but what's with the embrace?

    Surely he was dreaming, for this couldn't have been real--
    Undoubtedly, quite surely-- this was the result of an undercooked meal.
    But scared and confused and so terribly lost--
    Samuel gathered his voice and called, "Santa Claus?"
    He wanted to know-- he needed to know, quite literally-- what was the deal?

    Slowly but surely, the sagacious old man raised his head,
    Confusion on his face, as if he didn't know what had been said.
    "Yes, I am Santa," he said in a strangely vague voice.
    "Pierre Noel, Saint Nick-- call me by your choice."
    Samuel's stomach ached, as though dropped upon with lead.

    "Impossible," cried Samuel, "outrageous-- for you don't exist!"
    "I beg to differ," said Santa, "for I am here.You must be joking-- Surely, you jest?"
    Samuel was bamboozled, perplexed, surprised, and stunned.
    "So, that's it?" he said softly. "You're him? The elf? Saint Nicholas-- The one?"
    Saint Nick chose to answer when Samuel'd soaked in this.

    Santa laughed heartily, his belly shaking like gelatin.
    "Right." he said. "The elf, Saint Nicholas, the one, I'm him."
    Santa proceeded his work, Samuel watching, aghast.
    For an aged man, Santa was swift, and working quite fast.
    Samuel couldn't for the life of him, suppress his grin.

    Twelve years of age, quite intelligent, and keen--
    Nothing could've prepared him for what he'd just seen.
    Twelve years of age, quite intelligent, and proud:
    He didn't believe in Santa-- that is, until now.
    But even so, Samuel could have easily still called this a dream.

    The work was soon done, the two bid farewell, and Saint Nick took flight!
    "Oh my," Samuel watched from his perch on his porch, "Oh man-- what a sight!"
    Samuel, now a believer, went to his room for some rest--
    Satisfied, quite satisfied, that this Christmas was his best.
    And he heard the distant call before falling asleep: "Merry Christmas to all-- and to all, a good night!"