My Father Christmas passed away
When I was barely seven.
At twenty-one, alack-a-day,
I lost my hope of heaven.
Yet not in either lies the curse:
The hell of it's because
I don't know which loss hurt the worse --
My God or Santa Claus.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Makes me wonder if Service was a closet Unitarian.