And it came to pass, that during the days of Advent, in the early hours of night, some carol singers went forth to spread the spirit of Christmas to the ordinary people of Duncombe Road. With cardboard in their shoes to keep out the chilling cold and icy damp, they pulled their lumber jackets about them and came upon the first house. There, under the cold night sky, they began Good King Wenceslas. Even though the four part harmony fell apart, their voices floated into the air and carried to the people within - who could affordeth coal and were warm and cosy by their firesides.
At the ending of the carol, their voices fell still and they looked upon eachother with creased brows. Perhaps the people within had not heard them. Perchance they should sing another offering? Michael, the eldest caroller, nodded his head wisely and spake unto the others. "We shall give 'em Hark the Herald Angels Sing," he proclaimed. "And if they don't come, we'll stamp all over their roses."
The others nodded wisely, in agreement and cleared their throats, ready for another go. Yet another carol rose up in the silence of the night but to no avail. Not even yet a twitch of the curtains.
They finished their offering, then looked upon one another again.
"We've made fourpence h'appenny," Michael announced. "I think we should calleth it a day."
So saying, they made their way to the gates, pausing on the way to stamp on several Peace floribundas and to trampleth upon marigolds and wall flowers.
"That will teacheth them!" David muttered.
"Yeah," Michael agreed. "Got any Brock's cannons? We could shove one in the letter box."
"This is Christmas, not Guy Fawkes," David sayeth unto him. "The season of good will. Letteth us go home."
"Very good," Michael replied, "Let's just knock on the door hard then run away."
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