Who sings carols?

Not I, said the baker. I bring the bread.
Not I, said the knitter. I bring the knickers.
Not I, said the traveler. I bring the tales.
Not I, said the landlord. I bring the lights.
It was the fireman in the big cozy chair,
curled up with a book, and a fig in his hair.

Who sings carols?

Not I, said the carrots. We’re here for the eyes.
Not I, said the pies. We’re here for the thighs.
Not I, said the olives. We’re here for the gin.
Not I, said the nuts. We’re here for the salad.
It was the beans in the corner who started to blush,
it wasn’t their fault the guests ate in a rush.

Who sings carols?

Not I, said the lamp. I brighten the room.
Not I, said the table. I hold all the food.
Not I, said the door. I let the carolers in.
Not I, said the trash, but it’s starting to stink.
It was the chair who spoke last…
for all the guests who passed gas.

*all images courtesy of Google