Christmas is coming, get ready for the festivities, the revelries, the tinsel, the happiness, the seasonal joy. Yet amongst the all this sappiness let us retain a memory of Christmas past.

All About The Christmas Presence.

Down at the mall they’ve stuck up the tree,
There’s Christmas carols blaring out repeatedly,
Every jangle from ‘The First Noel’ to Jingle Bells’-
Peace and harmony, at nigh on a hundred decibels.

Belafonte’s belting out ‘The Little Drummer Boy’
Crosby’s ‘White Christmas’ is beginning to annoy,
I know by heart ‘Snoopy’s Christmas’s’ idiot refrain,
And round comes Harry’s pa rum pum pumĀ  again.

Stretched shopping bags are groaning,
Once chatty assistants are monotoning,
In their empty eyes the thousand-yard stare
As you join the queue you share their despair.

Standing in line, time pointlessly expended,
Praying your line of credit isn’t over-extended,
Stuck behind a snotty kid who tromps on your toes;
Wouldn’t you love to give Rudey a bloody red nose?

But

There’s more to Christmas than spending scores in stores
And we’ve lived too long to believe in a jolly Santa Claus,
What would we give to spend some Christmas cheer
With a select few who’ve gone on and left us here?

Old people, they say ‘the youth of today ain’t what they used to be.’ Ok boomer, this attitude needs to be seriously readdressed! Then again… (Based on an all-too-true story.)

One In A Millennial.

Last Friday they showed this dude around,
He was young and bright and seemed keen,
Had, at long last, my Masters apprentice been found?
This smart dressed man-bunned stripling of seventeen?

With forms signed, a shake of hands and smiles all round
Early Monday morn this happy meeting would reconvene,
Seems at least one millennial has feet planted on the ground,
Why yes, we could polish this raw wood, immature and green!

Dawn, Monday and our dismay was profound-
Nary a sign of the fine young master to be seen,
Through his bleeping alarm the poor little lamb slept sound-
Let’s leave him in peace, dreaming on of what might have been.

A tiny fragment of Jesus’ manger finds its way back to Jerusalem. A minor miracle, perhaps? Well, stranger things have happened I’ve been led to believe.

Grain Of Truth.

This shard of wood handed down by the pope
Is a holy relic, a God given gift of faith and hope,
A bit of the manger that had been sweet baby Jesus’ bed,
Or so the pontiff, crossing his fingers (and vice-versa) said.

Bits of True Cross have been sold for untold years,
An ongoing blessing for Vatican City Holy Souvenirs,
So this new True Crib many disbelievers may mock
But the line to see this chip goes off around the block.

With the patience of a saint in this long line I’ve stood,
As I’m a mere manual laborer, a humble hewer of wood
I can’t tell if this babe-in-the-wood story’s kosher or not
But I believe, within this hunk of wood lies a lot of rot.

The President grants a pardon for a turkey fated to be Thanksgiving dinner. How thoughtful, how humanitarian of Don. What a whopper it was too!

Tender Mercies.

Donald’s pardoned a turkey at Thanksgiving,
That bird can walk free and scratch out its living
Freed from thoughts of the chop and of harm,
Given free rein to range, down on the farm.

Donald knows this pardon is his Presidential right,
But he does possess a gross and base appetite,
To his ravening hunger he’s already succumbing,
Sadly, for one plucky turkey, Christmas is coming.

Donald has guaranteed to let that turkey strut-
But Don’s promise does comeĀ from with his but,
Stupid bird, to take Don’s solemn word on trust-
Just another turkey Donald’s stuffed and trussed.

Holiday times Ah, let’s let the hair down, escape to the country, see the wildlife, the fish and the fowl. Even time for the hair of the dog if you’re feeling a bit on the seedy side.

A Nest Of One’s Own.

We had all grown weary of the madding crowd,
Of the Apples pings, the Samsungs same old song,
The constant city clamouring had grown too loud,
We knew we’d been cooped up here far too long.

So we sought out a quiet country retreat,
Time, time to leave the big brash city behind,
To just chill, to swill a Sauvignon sooo sweet,
One to wash the city’s cares from one’s mind.

At the Te Kopura lodge we quietly took in the scenery,
The birds and the bees, the boat shed, the duck pond,
A haven of sweet silence, an oasis of lush greenery,
Glass in hand, down to the tinkling waters we swanned.

What dark apparition we found we had stirred
Up in the quiet backwaters of the Wairarapa?
This was one mightily ruffled honking big bird,
A black swan that thinks it’s a bloody snapper.

I blame that hissy pissed-off overly-territorial swan
For my spilling my fave Sav, sadly reducing me to Shiraz,
That swan done put me sat down plumb on my sit-upon
As I hastily backed away to land heavily on- the grass.

Still, at suppertime as I pecked at the chicken roast
I felt the need to stand, to raise my elbow from the bar,
And to the fine company gathered I offered up my toast;
‘To fine wine, fine food, to scrambled eggs and foie gras.’

Israel Folau, revered rugby player, claims- sermonises- that unrepentant sinners are the cause of Australia’s forest fires. Where’s a bolt of lightning from above when you need one?

Jesus Wept.

So, high and mighty Israel Folau,
You’ve flaming gone and done it now,
Our devout Christian-cum-climate denier
Claims sinfulness leads to forest- and Hellfire.

My flagging faith won’t be restored
By this empty-headed vessel of the Lord,
I pray St Peter has this sermon on record
When Israel goes to his final reward.

But I’ve heard that God does love a trier,
So might this unrepentant soul enquire,
Oh wise and enlightened Israel Folau
Who made you mightier than thou?

Roger Stone, a loyal Trumpian Republican trickster who’s lies bullyings and intimidations have landed him in State incarcer- accommodation. So, who will he turn to?

The Company You Keep.

Alas, poor miserable Roger Stone,
Into the slammer he’s been thrown,
Another Trump flunky lies in the hole
Unless Don has mercy on his craven soul.

The cells are where many dodgy deals are done,
Will Don take Rog’s call, begging Dons pardon?
In some dark sun-baked states liars get stoned,
In Dons half-baked State is perjury condoned?