Feastive Season, Festive Air.
That’s another Christmas meal complete,
Once again I’ve had far too much to eat,
Now here I sit, heavily settling in my seat,
Next, the dessert round, but first, the prickly heat.
I swore this year to avoid Ma’s tasty treat
But World Peace demands I keep her sweet,
And as the belt on my pants buckles in defeat-
Same ol’ story as last year, I’m bound to repeat.
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.
Too Long To List.
Santa’s made his list and closed his book,
On Christmas day naughty boys will vainly look
For all they’ve wanted, but they’ll be looking sad,
Certainly for a certain one who’s been bad- too bad.
That rascal is up at dawn on Christmas day,
He’s been perfectly good… well, in his own way,
Donny looks at his super-sized Christmas stocking,
Flapping on the Mar-a-lago mantle, empty, mocking.
On the stocking is pinned a note,
In explanation Saint Nick kindly wrote:
‘Sorry old son, my limit’s been reached,
Maybe next year, if you ain’t impeached.’
Clapped Out At Christmas.
Dang, I hadn’t completed my gift shopping after all,
So around our madhouse of a mall I rush pell-mell,
One good thing about our fetid crowded big-ass mall
Is air-conditioning that at least makes this a fresh hell.
Still, that fat-mouthed jolly Santa faintly smells-
A hint, a delicate whiff from his reindeer’s stalls?
Yo, Santa Claus, kindly stow your jingling bells
Cause Kris, I’m apt to break some Christmas balls.
As I pay and walk away my high(?) spirits begin to fall
As I hear the music from the Salvation Army band swell,
Their sadly out-of-tune caroling drove me up the wall
So I’ve decked the halls and two bell-ringers as well.
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 pum 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?
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?
Down In Hudddersfield Town.
Huddersfield Town’s future, so bright last June
Finally faded at Crystal Palace this dull afternoon,
It’s bound to be a silent, sad, sombre- and sober- coach trip
As the Terriers head back up North, down to the Championship.
By Xmas, Town knew it was gonna be tough at the top
But it’s a lot rougher when you’re the first team to drop,
To survive in the Premier League is a simple numbers game;
When Town tote up their losses all it amounts to is a crying shame.
If only Huddersfield’s brittle defence had been stronger
Or if their busy goalkeepers arms had been a little longer,
Or if they had a striker- or two- to pop in an occasional winner
The Terriers season mightn’t be finishing up a total dogs dinner.
Oh, yes, it’s back to work I’ve gone,
Here I am, sat upon my sit-upon,
Gazing blankly at a blinking screen
Brooding on the good days just been,
Looking out at a bright bright sunshiny day
Thinking darkly ‘Christmas is 333 days away.’
What an inspiring result at Man City the Palace fans saw,
But we’re back to reality after Cardiff’s nil-all draw,
Some say the Welsh were plucky,
Some say Palace were unlucky,
Cardiff came with a rear-guard ponderous, leaky and porous,
Hell, those Bluebirds would- should- be easy pickings for us.
But the Palace sharp-shooters hit both the bar and the post,
(They do tend to clobber the woodwork more than most,)
Gawdamighty, they hit the bar, they miss the ricochet,
No, we wouldn’t be celebrating Christs birthday;
Surely after the Man City Miracle, Lord it would please us
If someone nailed in a couple of crosses. (Apologies to Jesus.)
I’m sat at the White House, all alone,
Oh, poor pitiful me,
Just me, at Christmas, I with my phone,
Oh, poor lonesome me.
Being Prez ain’t all tinsel and glitter
Even for wonderful me,
All I have is my GreaT thoughts and Twitter
To accompany me…
Yes, I’m missing out on Melania’s home-cooked meal
Which disagrees with me,
But fortuitously, I’ve worked out a hell of a deal
‘Tween McDonalds and me.
This Christmas I’ve no Kelly, no Mattis
To stifle magnificent me
On troops, policy and other trifling matters,
Oh, impulsive impetuous me.
Here I’m free from their ever-ongoing discussion
That soooooo bores me,
They might as well talk turkey in Chinese- or Russian,
It’s all Greek to me.
Here I’m free of constraints from one and all,
Free to think of only me,
As governments shut down, and my stocks fall
I sit here and ponder at the wonder about me.
Merrily On High.
Down the chimney Santa Claus went
But he’s a touch laden down at present,
For Santa may wish to discharge his duty
But Santa Claus is carrying too large a booty.
The dazed and confused residents below
Heard his ‘Yo ho ho’ become an ‘uh-oh.’
Santa was stuck fast ‘neath the chimney pot-
Speaking of which, pot is legal now, is it not?
They puffed and strained to smoke the stout fellow out
But a man of Santa’s weight can but wait and mellow out.