Talking of Christmas poetry, something of mine that Arvy's already seen:
One fine Christmas evening, when feeling quite merry,
Santa, his job done and tanked up on sherry,
Was feeding the reindeer their seasonal food,
When an elf at the door said "Don't let me intrude,
But now work is ended, I missed my flight home,
Through a cold, dark, abandoned toy factory I roam,
So spare me a bit of that seasonal cheer,
And, well, Mr Claus, can't I just sleep here?"
Now this elf, she was... well, it is none too polite,
So shall we just call her a "girl of the night"?
But with nary a thought and with nary a care,
Santa embarked on this sordid affair,
He simply said "Yes," with no hint of a pause,
And no hint of a thought for his wife, Mrs Claus.
"Let's elope!" Said he, "To a new life of fun,
Forget all this snow, let's go search out some sun!
Destroy the old factory! Reduce it to ashes!"
The elven seductress just batted her lashes.
So Santa turned out the reindeer, into the cold,
Though Donner was pregnant and Dancer was old,
and their poor reindeer teeth made a chattering chorus,
(They were found dead, years later, by Polar Explorers.)
And Mrs Claus, frankly, well she took a leading
Role in the the famous divorce court proceedings.
She's loaded for life: this is because, partly,
Santa's lawyer's last client was Sir Paul McCartney.
And Santa's new life? Didn't turn out that great,
I hear that he's turned to the bottle of late,
The man's wracked with guilt for turning out Blitzen,
For the carnal delights of a young elven vixen.
And the whole Christmas business? That's all been sold,
There are different hands toymaking at the North Pole.
The elves have been thrown out, their craft isn't cheap.
But immigrant labour? They just work and sleep!
So now Christmas is owned by a big multinational,
And all because Santa, when slightly irrational,
Made a stupid mistake because of the drink:
And there's something here that we can all learn, I think.
I'm not saying miss all the seasonal cheer,
By all means have a can, or a glass at new years,
But get to the point where you're totally wreckless,
and, like Mr Claus, you can act rather feckless.
It's pointless to get drunk beyond all control,
And end up passed out in the cold turkey rolls.
So when it gets round to that time once again,
Of peace on the earth, and good will to all men,
Just try not to do things you'll later regret,
Some actions, like Santa's, are hard to forget.
★ ★★ ★★ ★ ★
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