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From my anapest poem - Moore's adoption of the poem brought by a mutual friend of the Moores and Livingstons, a governess:

"Dear Benji, I'm sure you want Santa to know
"That you've been a good boy when his toys he'll bestow,
"But if you will take the new ball from your brother
"It seems that I'll have to tell Santa another
"Young boy would perhaps deserve his toys more
"While you should find only black coal in your drawer."
Putting down his neat pen, with its tip finely cut,
Clement grinded his teeth and compress'd his lips shut.
Boing, boing, bang! Boing, boing, bang! Down the hall came the sound
That was causing the pain in his head to hard pound.
"Nurse Burnett! It's past time that the children should be
"Up attending to afternoon toast and to tea."
A flurry of footsteps outside of his door
Indicated that soon the young man would be bore
With his ball to the heights of the mansion so tall
That the blessings of silence were sure soon to fall.
And soon stillness, how blessed the sound of the word,
Now descended till all that was heard was a bird.

With reluctance did Clement return to his task.
'Twas the night before Christmas and his time to bask
In the smiles of his children, well, all but for one,
His protagonist often seem'd out of the fun.
Taking up pen again Clement read what he'd writ.
He was sorely afraid mother wouldn't admit
That a child of her own would deserve such a fate.
In her eyes they were angels, there was no debate.
She was soft with the children. Yes, soft with him, too,
And he smiled at the thought soon to smell her shampoo.
For he loved her as much as the day they'd been wed
And his joy Christmas Eve was to hold her in bed.
He was sure she'd be pleased with her gift in the morn
They'd to Paris late summer, his love to adorn
In the silks and the fashions that ladies did love
And the perfumes annointing her breast and her glove.
It was thoughts such as these that enraptured his mind
Till the chimes of a clock his confusion did find.

Six o'clock! Where did time with its scepter so swift
Go when soon he'd be call'd, dinner jacket to lift;
And then children would riot with tummies replete
Of a nursery meal and excited to meet
And to hear their own father's new Santa Claus poem.
Why poor Benji - guilt bottled the words in their home.
After all, little Benjamin, namesake of pere,
Truly look'd like an angel when put to his prayer.
There was time, wasn't there, for the poem to be done?
For no man should be less in the eyes of his son.
Sending prayers of his own Clement paus'd as his hand
Moving randomly brought out a paper he scann'd.
What was this? 'Twas a poem. About Santa, in fact.
But from where and from who his poor memory lack'd.
Only doggeral, nary a moral in sight
But a poem, none-the-less, that could save him tonight.
Surely heaven-sent gifts t'were a sin to despise
And besides, who would know that he'd borrow'd the prize?

*********

Think this possibility is overly cruel to Moore? Read the Christmas poem that Moore wrote to his little daughter, whose crying angered him so.

What! My sweet little Sis, in bed all alone;
No light in your room! And your nursy too gone!
And you, like a good child, are quietly lying,
While some naughty ones would be fretting or crying?
Well, for this you must have something pretty, my dear;
And, I hope, will deserve a reward too next year.
But, speaking of crying, I'm sorry to say
Your screeches and screams, so loud ev'ry day,
Were near driving me and my goodies away.
Good children I always give good things in plenty;
How sad to have left your stocking quite empty:
But you are beginning so nicely to spell,
And, in going to bed, behave always so well,
That, although I too oft see the tear in your eye,
I cannot resolve to pass you quite by.
I hope, when I come here again the next year,
I shall not see even the sign of a tear.
And then, if you get back your sweet pleasant looks,
And do as you're bid, I will leave you some books,
Some toys, or perhaps what you still may like better,
And then too may write you a prettier letter.
At present, my dear, I must bid you good bye;
Now, do as you're bid; and, remember, don't cry.