On Christmas night as I lay in bed
I heard a heavy groan high overhead
As Santa landed his overladen sled.
I heard him prise up the chimney vent-
I’m sure Santa was filled with good intent
But nowadays Santa is a rather portly gent.
With speed and agility that impressed
He swiftly reached the chimney breast-
There’s where he came to a complete rest.
Santa was stoppered, like a cork,
Face pushed up against the chimney fork
Ooh Santa, that’s no way to talk!
There came a crack up in the smokestack,
Down tumbled Santa, suit sootily black
Landing hard, smack on his Santa sack.
Rising bowed and bloodied from the rubble
The old gent stood, gasped and bent double
So I entrussed him with a gift, for his trouble.