All: But the needles are dropping now. They lie like the manna in the desert across the floor. And we all get them in our socks and slippers.
Archdruid: "All flesh is as grass" and the Norwegian spruce is like unto the flowers of the field.
All: All the leaves are brown, and the chocolate baubles are eaten.
Archdruid: How desolate it stands, the tree that once was called beautiful.
All: The presents shall nestle under it no more. The children play with the empty boxes. And the "Frozen" action figures are already forgotten, like the people that rest in the dust.
Archdruid: And so we commit our Christmas tree to the dump.
All: The baubles to the big box of Christmas stuff, there to await the Nativity Scene, and to rest on the stairs until we get round to putting them in the attic in August.
Archdruid: The lights we wrap carefully, ensuring not the least entangling.
All: They shall be tied like unto the Gordian Knot when we extract them in November, and we will search in vain for the transformer that was lost.
Archdruid: The angel on the tree shall be wrapped in crepe paper.
All: I'm sure it's a fairy, not an angel.
Archdruid: But the outside bling remainest, secure as a stronghold, even unto 12th Night on the sixth January.
All: You sure you don't mean the fifth?
Archdruid: We normally leave it till the sixth but don't light it after the fifth. It's a kind of via media...
All: OK. Shall we get this tree out?
Archdruid: So go unto the garden waste skip at the dump, old friend, and return to us anew as environmentally-friendly but surprisingly expensive compost.
All: May your needles drop like tears, as you weep and remember the days gone by.