'Twas the night before Christmas
and all through my house
were Rosie's Hanukkah presents
a toy bone and mouse.
And on one of the tables
next to her toy bone
was a cup of Mike Kline's
of my very own.
A Britt, a Tanner,
a Flannigan-Bond,
a Theriault, a Tinnaro,
and the list goes on
of potters whose cups
I have at least one.
But though all the cups
all equally fine
somehow none can compare
to the feel of a Kline.
They each have their form
their whimsy and glaze
They are evenly thrown
and garner high praise.
But tonight as I sit
In my chair and recline
Watching TV
And drinking my wine
The wind is howling
The cheescake divine
Some how nothing compares
to the feel of a Kline.
Merry Christmas.
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