Poem number 45
Santa won’t eat reindeer
But he’s scoffed a fair few elves
He says he’s only doing
What they like to do themselves
And that’s true, all elves are cannibals
They number less each year,
If they don’t amend their diet
Pretty soon they’ll disappear
But for now the packs of tofu
Stay unopened on the shelf,
It’s dinnertime in Lapland
And they’re tucking in to elf.
Poem number 128
Examine the crystalline beauty of the raindrop
Magnificent in its simplistic individuality
And a bugger if it hits you in the eye.
Consider the scarlet mnemonic which is the holly berry
Christmas condensed into a perfect sphere
And poisonous on the tongue.
Nature is a femme fatale. Her dangers clothed in scent and mirrors
She stalks in beauty like the night, two faced
So wear gloves when you prune the roses.
Poem number 334
Survivors Of The Nostromo. Signing Off.
New Year’s Eve tomorrow
Christmas gone, defunct, kaput
Time to take the tree apart
And pack up all the toot
Stow the lights in plastic bags
Put baubles in their box
Fold up the Christmas jumpers
Store them with the Christmas socks.
Whilst far away, in Lapland,
Elves are cleaning factory floors
Packing up the woodwork tools
And closing all the doors.
The Grotto will be mothballed
‘Til the Summer’s had its day
(‘Til children feel the Autumn chill
And think of Santa’s Sleigh)
And the Elves themselves will hibernate
In cryogenic beds
With pulse and heartrate monitors
Taped gently to their heads.
An android doc will oversee
Their sleep, and see they’re sound,
Ensure they all wake up again
When Autumn comes around.
And Santa? Father C himself?
He’ll sleep the springtime through
But wake in time for summer
And a barbecue or two
He has no need for androids though
Or cryogenic bed
He’ll sit there in his armchair
With a cup of tea instead
And bit by bit his eyes will droop
He’ll slowly start to snore
He’ll breathe all deep and even
Drooling dribble on the floor.
And that’s it. That’s how the Christmas fades
To stasis, ’til next yule:
Boxed up baubles, sleeping Elves
And Santa’s bit of drool.
But oh! When Autumn comes again
The spirit will arise
Thoughts of Christmas greetings
Lighted windows, mincemeat pies.
So don’t be sad, no need to grieve
The spirit isn’t dead
Just resting with the baubles
In a cryogenic bed.
Poem number 339
Get Offline You Fool!
Switch off the stupid internet
It’s Christmas! Christmas Day!
Stop gawping at your browser –
Go and jingle all the way!
Poem number 340
Wise Words For Tomorrow
It’s Christmas Day tomorrow
Some presents and some food
Be sure to kiss Aunt Marigold
Don’t let her think you’re rude
Close your mouth when chewing spuds
Don’t let the crumbs fly out
Hide the horror in your eyes
Each time you face a sprout
Enjoy your food, don’t gobble it
There is no need to rush
The wine is there for sipping
Not for guzzling like a lush
Use spoons and forks, not fingers
You weren’t brought up in a barn
Think before you make a joke
Or tell a racy yarn
But most of all, enjoy it!
Eat the nibbles, drink the beer!
Stay up late and watch TV
Then sleep-in ‘til New Year!
Poem number 357
It’s All In the Game, Yo
While shepherds washed their socks one night
All sitting round the fire
A scruffy murder police arrived –
McNulty from The Wire
He held a photo up to them
And said “You seen this guy?
Fluffy wings and dressed in white?
I heard that he dropped by.”
“Oh yeah,” a shepherd nodded
“He was here sometime last night
He told us that some kid’s been born
To put the world to rights.”
“That’s right,” another shepherd said
“He said that we should go
And visit with this honky kid
And give him presents, yo. “
McNulty nodded sagely, said
“Yeah well, that may be true
But who gives a fuck about some kid
When my guy’s turning blue?
He’s lying on a slab downtown
A shank stuck in his chest,
And you folks saw him last, it seems
So tell me all the rest
Or I’ll lock you up in County
With the rapists and the nuts
And you’ll spend a week just shitting blood
From out your bony butts.”
“Ok, ok,” The first replied
“Fuck me, I hate Five-o.
Don’t you going telling no-one
That we told you what we know.”
“That’s Gabriel, Big Angel G
He came here once a week
To buy himself a half a key
To spread amongst the meek.”
“A dealer?” Jim McNulty smiled
“I guess that seems to fit.
He looked so damned angelic
But this mope was selling shit.
I guess that even Heaven’s
Full of dope fiends everywhere
And maybe God don’t give a fuck
Who deals the shit up there.
Ok, I’ll buy it. There’s no point
In asking you for more
But no promises – I may be back
Again, who knows for sure.”
And with that he turned and walked away.
The shepherds shook their heads
“A Five-o. Here. In Shepherd Town
Just ‘cause some honky’s dead.”
They picked their socks up once again
And hoped that no one heard
That they’d spoken to McNulty
‘Cause if Marlo got the word
Then they’d end up in the vacants
Which would be a goddamned shame
But I guess that’s just the risk you take
When you be in The Game.
Poem number 359
Queuing Up For Christmas
Queuing up for Christmas
Cars are gridlocked, sitting still
Along the street and round the bend
And even up the hill
It’s half past two already
So soon it will be dark
Odds on that when they get to town
There’ll be nowhere to park
But what the heck, it’s Christmas
What’s a wasted hour or three
If it means the little kiddies
Find some gifts beneath the tree.
Poem number 361
Alternative Carol Number 4
Once a boy called David hit me
On my nose which cut and bled
He said my t-shirt did not fit me
Then he punched me in the head
I was always meek and mild
But Jesus Christ, that boy was wild.
On another sad occasion
David stole my favourite shoes
I walked home through streets of cobbles
And my feet got really bruised
I was small, and pretty passive
He was mad, and kind of massive.
Then when we were twenty seven
We both died of dysentery
Journeyed to the gates of Heaven
Peter gazed at him and me
Gave me wings and silver bell
Sent bad David down to Hell
So the moral of this story
Is that bad guys always lose
Especially those who punch small children
Then steal both their favourite shoes
I’ll stop now, before I bore you
Please be good, I now implore you.
Poem number 368
Alternative Carol Number 3
Ding dong Mary Berry’s high
Fresh hash-cakes in the oven
Ding Dong! Twinkle in her eye
Enough to feed a dozen
Paul Hollywood, is bringing homemade munchies
Ding Dong Mary wants to try
A bong with flavoured water
Paul says “Mary, we could die!
Do you think we really oughta?”
Paul Hollywood, is scared that he might whitey
Ding dong Mary says goodbye
Paul ambles to his chauffeur
Gawps in wonder at the sky
That cloud’s shaped like a sofa
Paul Hollywood, is absolutely toasted.
Poem number 369
Alternative Carol Number 2
Oh little town of Wensleydale
You fill me up with cheese
I buy a chunk
That I can dunk
Into my mushy peas
And if there’s some left over
I mix it with some brie
I spread it thick
And eat it quick
Washed down with nice hot tea.