You truly are the saddest star
And when thy perched is viewed afar
One one thin branch bereft of leaves
Is tilted backwards now I see.
This gray star had been recovered
For its semblance to a cover —
Star adorning my tree’s steeple:
“Automatic For The People.”
High it adorns a festive spread
Of ornaments: the gold and red
Creates a glow that sets ablaze
That battles back winter’s malaise.
But saddest star? You just recall
The MTV of “Monster’s Ball.”
Still you remain our lone tree topper
Till we buy one that’s far more proper.