Jingalingalinging… Hand Wringing.

The spirit of Christmas lives on into the New Year, and on. A Christmas cautionary tale.

Jingaling, Hand ringing.

‘Hurry, Christmas is coming, there are gifts to be bought,
Don’t worry, your bank has an answer if money’s short,
Don’t stretch the stitching of your cash filled billfold,
Just take a card- any card- silver, platinum or gold,’

To a simple soul this sounded sage advice,
A few monthly payments seemed a small price,
My smiling solicitous bank manager is one of a kind,
He was happy to accept as my signature the X’s I signed.

In the twinkling of an eye he’d handed me my very own card,
I felt so special, knowing he held me in such high regard,
My frayed wallet now held untold purchasing power,
Impressive for someone paid seven bucks an hour.

My bank manager gave me a word of advice,
‘Having a limit of a thousand bucks sounds very nice
But remember the bank does charge a small handling fee-
A miniscule percentage, to compensate for our generosity.’

As he ushered me out the door he had one last thing to say;
‘Don’t forget your PIN number, bye, and have a nice day.’
How can I remember that when my memory is so poor?
So I wrote my number on my card, just to make sure.

Money worries over, I went out on the town,
Awash in presents, I slapped that plastic down,
What a joy it is hearing the merry chiming of the till,
Til there came a buzzing, then a ‘Declined,’ then the bill.

I reluctantly withdrew from my wallet most of my holiday pay;
This would mean a jolly Christmas but a lean New Years Day,
‘Joy To The World’ those happy carollers continued to sing,
But I never heard a jolly word over the tills hollow ring.

A final few purchases later, arms filled to overflowing,
My last nickel gone, my Christmas cheer rapidly going,
With parcels, spirits and finances in danger of falling
I was SO over those carollers and their caterwauling.

From the warmth of the Mall, out the sliding doors
The sudden freezing feeling gave me cause to pause,
I can’t help but think of those folk less well off than me
Till I remember -now- I’M more than deserving of charity.

A loitering soliciting Santa caught my reluctant eye
As I tried to slip and slide my way silently by,
He’s a’rattling and a’swinging his bucket,
I’d so hoped I’d be able to duck it.

He looked at me hard, he thought it mighty strange
Someone as flush as I couldn’t spare chump change,
He gazed at my sorry face, then at my bulging pockets-
They held nary a penny, only Target and JC Penney dockets.

Now another Christmas season has left an indelible mark,
Those bright pretty lights are gone and ’tis cold and dark,
The wind chills me to the bone, outside’s blowin’ a gale
As in the guttering candle light I read this day’s mail.

My bank sent me a card AND letter in a gold envelope,
They wish me a happy New Year and the earnest hope
That I receive this communication, and once I’ve read it
Next month they expect to see my account’s back in credit.

It seems there’s a limit to how far Savings and Loans go;
In my credit card statement it’s at least one less zero,
It’s the easy life for the lucky gent with a credit card-
It’s paying back twenty frikken’ percent that’s hard.

I might not be too sharp, I might be downright dumb
But I can count the cost, and the time has surely come,
I’m truly sorry Mom, forgive your less than perfect son-
The card awaits, I’ve scissors in hand, and I have to run.


Wheel Spin.

Lance Armstrong comes to our fair shores to do a tv spot about ‘The consequences.’ This ad is for a beer company! Draw you own conclusions about recreational use.
Bringing out a seven times Tour De France champion- sorry, pharmaceutically enhanced Champion- to tell us his tragic tale seems a bit on the nose. However sorry you are Lance, sorry, I’m not buying it. Anyway Lance doesn’t seem a beer drinking kinda guy, surely he’s a shots sort of dude?

Wheel Spin.

Lance truly deeply sincerely regrets
Sullying the good name
Of his spotlessly clean pristine sport.

So he’s paying his debts,
He’s talking a fair game,
A humbling lesson has been taught.

No more pre-test cold sweats;
Nowadays he can truly claim
He’ll pis… pass any toxicology report.

But it’s not the condemnation that upsets,
What still causes pain and shame
Isn’t doing the crime, but getting caught.


For Lucy…Or Lucyfor?

The quiet life…Oh, isn’t that what we all want? Well, friends and neighbors,
not so much any more.

For Lucy/Lucifer.

A fine young family moved in next door,
A change from the old couple here before,
Why, we were barely aware Rowan was there
And Joanna maintained a a cool silent distant air.

But now there’s changes afoot in our quiet neighborhood,
Now, having a bit of young blood is all well and good,
But even with a six-foot fence and a thick hedge
Lucy’s caterwauling from yonder sets my teeth on edge.

Before school and on weekends our sweet dreams
Are lacerated by loquacious Lucy’s shrill screams,
Since school’s ended we look forward to her shrieks
Morning noon and night for six soul destroying weeks.

Out in the gazebo, taking in the morning sun
I hear the stirring of Annette’s precious one,
Oh, how her dulcet tones thrill and delight us,
We so hope she gets to go on holiday- or laryngitis.

Lunchtimes, and we’re wont to have a quiet barbecue
And friends come over, or at least they used to,
Now those days and our friends have gone,
Who can quietly chat with that racket going on?

Out in the garden, listening to evening birdsong,
Or trying to, but once again Lucy proves me wrong,
So back inside I stomp, ears burning and eyes blazing,
Thoughts turning to cold winters and double glazing.

This morning I saw, through the window, Lucy singing,
Oh, what joy this simple silent sight is bringing,
If I strain I hear…Oh this is music to my ears-
I hear what Beethoven heard… in his later years.


Jingalingaling, Ka-ching!

As once again Christmas draws near
I’m feeling nausea, not good cheer,
For eleven months I’ve slaved away
To pay for last years happy holiday.

I’ve had no luck with Lotto draws
So I’ll take a long shot on Santa Claus,
My kiddies belief in him is unshaken,
It’s me that the old codgers forsaken.

Santa, please add me to your list,
Lately I’ve been the one you’ve missed,
This good ol’ boy ain’t been bad, so what is it?
Why won’t you favour me with a flying visit?

And I do need you Santa, believe you me,
Help me through the annual spending spree,
Leave some goodwill when you’re at my place,
Something crisp and green, in an attache case.

You well know, Santa, the year we’ve had;
The kids have been good, the economy bad,
I asked the Boss for a bonus, but he resisted,
Hopefully Father Christmas ain’t as tight-fisted.

… On Christmas day my kids eyes shine,
And, as a matter of fact, so do mine,
‘Cause in our house Santa ain’t set foot,
Not one lousy present, no trace of soot.

The only gifts were the ones I’d bought,
And they saw me coming and sold us short,
My lips all a’tremble and my cheeks are wet,
‘Cause a no-show Santas left me deep in… debt.


Messy Christmas.

The time of year for Lords a’leaping. Time to spread a little joy and happiness to those of us who love the season with all our hearts. Carol singing, bells ringing,
Etc etc.

Messy Christmas.

At long last the Yuletide season has arrived,
Its been a bad business year but I’ve survived,
I unlocked my cabinet, poured a wee tipple-
What the Hell, might as well, I made it a triple.

Nowadays a tumbler of Tullamore Dew
(When I say one, I really mean two,)
Helps me to sit back, relax and unwind,
Put the pain of the past year from my mind.

I know its best to sup it nice and slow,
Savour that flavour, enjoy the warm glow,
But lately I find I crave the comfort it provides,
And now that first sip rarely touches the sides.

That drop of the Dew had me dropping off to sleep,
Then from above I heard someone stealthily creep,
A heavy boot scraping up on the second floor-
Every year those old boards creak a little more.

In an instant I was wide awake,
Some burglar was making a bad mistake,
In the cabinet my hand searched for and found
Something comfortably heavy and cold and round.

In a voice that shook with righteous indignation
I asked the interloper upstairs for an explanation;
‘Better make yourself known to me , friend
Or else our meeting’s coming to a nasty end.’

Up the stairs I crept, and I found my proof-
A burglars boot disappearing up on the roof,
So I did what any pissed homeowner would do-
I’d take it back in a minute if I were able to.

Lord knows I’m sorry to have been the cause
Of ruining Christmas for both kids and Santa Claus,
Santa could’ve kept on delivering to a ripe old age,
But he’s not, since he got in the way of my 12 gauge.


Big Deal Or Hot Air?

Donald ‘saves’ a bundle of jobs at Carrier in Indiana. Carrier was going to go to Mexico, But Donald has the solution. Well, he knows what works… for him.

Big Deal.

Donald is saving 1100 jobs at Carrier,
jobs going to Mexicans presented a barrier,
So Carriers bosses are staying after all-
Don’s got them by the- up against the wall.

At the plant its happy days,
Donald basks in deserved praise.

Donald’s public gesture is bold and dramatic,
Behind the scenes he’s prosaically pragmatic,
He can’t let Carrier go, he asks ‘what will it take?
The CEO replies’ We’ll stay, just give us a break?’

That’s a touchy point to raise;
Tax-wise he works in mysterious ways.

What loud accolades his doing a dodgy deal earns,
Especially from a man silent about his own tax returns,
To those lucky 1100, when next years’ taxes come due
Be grateful to Donald because he’s depending on YOU.

Don’t do as Don does, do as he says,
Lip service to taxes is all he pays.


Seven Rules For Seeing In-Store Santa.

Christmas is not here, but near… Christmas carols, yo ho ho, all that happy stuff. What about the harsh grim reality for the poor old sod who does nothing all year
then double shifts all through December?

Seven Rules For Seeing In-Store Santa.

Number Seven.
Little ones, Santa would like to thank
You for not giving Santa’s beard a yank,
Should some tugger of a kid do it will reveal
That Santa really swears… that his beard is real.

Number Six.
Children, contain yourselves, we know why you’re here,
To present your request into Santa’s shell-like ear,
Children, QUIETLY tell Santa what you wish to get,
Santa hears you very well, he isn’t deaf- yet.

Number Five.
Well mannered little masters or madams
Are welcome- if weighing under 40 kilograms,
A graceless leap into his lap leaves him white-faced,
Santa gets a bit grumpy since that hip’s been replaced.

Number Four.
Fathers, Santa would love to see your tiny tot,
But a tantrum throwing kid- he does not,
Santa gives all spoilt brats short shrift;
A kick in the backside his parting gift.

Number Three.
Mothers, he has a few old fashioned quibbles,
Another is no cuddle if your wee darling dribbles,
So, good parents, keep tissues and wet-wipes about you,
Surely Santa has no need to explain numbers One and Two?