I adore this nursery rhyme, it runs through my head many a time when the holidays approach.
I could speak eloquently on the coming of Christmas, or wax poetic on the merits of this work by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, but I will not.
The painting speaks for itself, and it possesses a voice that would fill many volumes. Likewise, the holidays themselves speak more eloquently than the blood of Abel. All I could offer would be straw, unnecessary and easily blown away in a stiff breeze.
Though even straw made a bed fit for a king.
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