‘Twas the Night Before Christmas (with abject apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)

There’ll be tears in the morn’ when she comes with his bread
And your dear little daughter discovers him dead,
But still, do not worry, she will not stay sad
When she spots, through the wrapping, that she’s got an i-pad.

The stockings we hung by the chimney with strings,
Were not for all the extravagant things:
For those they have hanging, at the end of their beds
Two giant sacks with their names on instead.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
Whilst visions of smart phones danced in their heads
And mummy and I, with an hour to kill,
Were fearfully reading the credit card bill.

When out in the street arose such a din,
‘Cos the people next door were trying to get in,
But the key they were trying was turning no more,
Which wasn’t surprising – it wasn’t their door.

‘If you hadn’t guzzled that last Famous Grouse,
You’d have known straight away that it wasn’t our house.’
Said the wobbling wife as she stumbled for home
And was sick down the back of a small plastic gnome.

‘It’s four in the morning,’ an angry voice cried.
‘Just shut up your racket or I’m coming outside.’
Then all became silent, except, from afar
The sound of a key down the side of their car.

As dry leaves start falling from autumnal trees,
So snow began drifting along on the breeze
And high in the sky at the reins of his sled,
A white bearded man with a hat on his head.

‘Now Dasher, now Dancer, now Prancer and Vixen.
On Comet, on Cupid, on Donner and Blitzen!’
He cried to the reindeer in tones slurred and merry,
Having just swallowed his ten thousandth sherry.

And then, for a moment, I heard from the roof
An outburst of language that seemed most uncouth,
Then a flash by the window – a red and white blur
Of fat man and white beard; of red felt and fur.

He knocked on the door when he’d climbed to his feet
And adjusted his cloak ‘gainst the cold blinding sleet.
‘Just give me five minutes to sit by your fire
And I’ll see that your children get all they desire.’

We gave him some tea and both patiently sat
As he talked about this and he talked about that
And then, having eaten the last hot mince pie
He rose and he slapped on his red-trousered thigh.

He yawned – ‘I must return to my duty
My sled is still packed with a mountain of booty.’
And then, as he turned to the door with a wave
We reminded him of the promise he gave.

‘Of course, yes,’ he laughed, his jolly face beaming.
‘But quick now, while the kids are still dreaming.
Here, look at this dolly with glass-beaded eyes
And this wig and some glasses to make a disguise.’

‘A car made of tin and a train made of wood.
This big Snakes & Ladders is really quite good.
An orange, some nuts and a new, shiny penny.’
But electrical goods he hadn’t got any.

‘You conman,’ we cried. ‘You are not Santa Claus.
If we’d known it we would have left you outdoors.
The real Father Christmas would not carry such tat.
We want top class products – and brand names at that.’

‘Our kids will go mad if we give them this shite:
There are no soddin’ batteries and no gigabytes.
They don’t give a monkeys about innocence lost;
Just leave them a bill so they know what stuff costs.’

He turned to us now and his eyes filled with tears,
‘These presents have kept children happy for years.’
We looked at the list of the rubbish he’d got.
‘You silly old fool, you are losing the plot.’

He sprang to his sleigh crying ‘Sod this, I’m beat!’
And they all flew away to their Lapland retreat,
But I heard him exclaim ‘They are never content.
Now the thought doesn’t count – just the money you’ve spent.’

And so Christmas morning descended with gloom.
The children both rose and they looked round the room
At the i-phones, the i-pads, the Xbox and games
And they pulled at the labels and picked out their names.

Then at last they had finished, all presents unwrapped,
And we sat down for breakfast all energy sapped.
‘This is lame,’ they exclaimed. ‘This day is a bore.’
‘We’ve only got what we asked Santa Claus for.’

Then they saw on the floor where the old man had stood
A doll made of cloth and a train made of wood
And happily, low-tech, they played all the day
Whilst we packed all of their i-stuff away.

First published 22.12.2018

I have re-published this today for three reasons, 1) tonight is the night before christmas, 2) it is the first Christmas post I ever published on this platform and 3) six years on, I still rather like it.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Haphazardly Poetical – The Reception

Photo by Trust “Tru” Katsande on Unsplash

I posted ‘The Wedding’ last week and mentioned that I also had this ‘poem’ prepared and, against all expectations, a few of you said that you would like to read it, so here goes…

The smoker’s bar at the Rat and Duck,
Was where they all went on.
The tables were all caked in muck
And so was Uncle Ron.
He’d tried, you see, to stand between
Aunt Daisy and Aunt May
And asked them not to cause a scene
Just let the matter lay.

It seemed to work – to some extent
They smiled with fond accord.
And this he took for good intent;
His optimism soared.
They acted like they’d always been
The very best of chums,
But poor old Ron had just not seen
The way that trouble comes.

It’s true, he felt a slight unease,
It seemed a little weird
That Aunty May fell to her knees
While Daisy stroked his beard.
“Is this all real?” Aunt Daisy quipped,
Her mouth fixed in a grin.
Then sudden fear, as both hands gripped
The growth upon his chin.

“Who do you think you are?” she cried
“To interfere like that.”
And then with all her strength applied
Her handbag round his hat.
Then gave a mighty push and heave
To where Aunt May was crawling.
Without the merest by-your-leave
They sent the poor man sprawling

Then when they had him on the floor
His two demonic foes
Both asked him if he ‘wanted more’
Whilst pounding on his nose.
And so he tried to run away
To leave them hell for leather
He would have done so, had not May
Tied both his shoes together.

He tried, but he could not escape,
Nor find a place to hide.
Salvation came in the awesome shape
Of a gently blushing bride.
“I’m doing the rounds of all the men
And you’re the next,” she said.
Before she latched on, there and then,
Like a plunger to his head.

Poor Uncle Ron, he tried to breathe;
He tried to pull away,
But Jane just wouldn’t let him leave
Until she’d had her way.
He tried, in vain, to shake her free
To get it over quick.
He really didn’t mean to be
So violently sick.

The bridegroom by this time had downed
A dozen beers or more
And, having fallen down, had found
He liked it on the floor.
He wouldn’t have to face his bride,
To breath her strange aroma,
Or feel her naked at his side
If he was in a coma.

He tried to stand, to order more,
His legs would not obey.
He fell again to the sticky floor
And there he thought he’d stay.
But burning thirst now ruled his head
“I think I’ll die quite soon,
If I don’t get a drink,” he said,
Whilst draining the spitoon.

The ‘breakfast*’ scoffed, the speeches made,
The wine (and guests) all drunk,
And from the plate where fruitcake laid
The DJ grabbed a chunk
“Now it’s time to spin the platters”
He looked around, askance –
They were all of them as mad as hatters –
It was time for the First Dance.

So Jane ran over to the bar
And hauled the groom upright.
The barman saw the door ajar
And attempted to take flight
As all assembled took their place,
The couple gently swayed
With all the elegance and grace
Of flies when sprayed with Raid.

Then all surrounding bundled in –
Aunt Fanny did the splits –
And Uncle Ronnie, tumbling in
Fell face-first in her décolletage.
Somehow he wound-up underneath,
His yells were heard afar:
The braces on his crooked teeth
Got hooked up on her bra.

The men hauled on his laces,
The women pulled her heels.
There were many reddened faces
And a multitude of squeals
As excess wind was broken
When the two were dragged apart
And Ronnie left a token –
A deadly, silent fart.

And so the evening ground along,
Aunt Daisy got quite merry,
Before they reached the final song
She’d swallowed all the sherry,
Some Cherry-B’s, a Babycham,
A snowball and a gin,
Been sick across a plate of ham
And three times in a bin.

The happy couple slid away
Before the night was through,
They’d really quite enjoyed the day,
And ‘the night’ was overdue:
The bridegroom couldn’t stay awake,
The bride was left frustrated,
She tried her best for goodness sake,
But left him half castrated.

His screams were heard across the town,
His voice was loud and high
As in her haste to ‘get them down’
She didn’t pull the fly,
But raked, instead, his wherewithal
With a thousand little teeth
‘Til the skin was barely there at all
Nor what was underneath.

An evening spent in A & E**
Their married life began.
A little stitch (or ninety three)
To ensure he stayed a man.
The honeymoon put back for weeks
To allow for partial mending
Another tale on which to peek
But for now we’ve reached the ending.

*Why the after-wedding meal is known as a breakfast, I have no idea.
**Accident & Emergency – the department at UK hospitals where you are taken to be ignored for several hours, if not days, before receiving treatment (a problem with the system and definitely not the wonderful, over-worked staff) for bodily damage and illness.

As I mentioned at the top of this piece, this ‘poem’ was ready to go – except that it wasn’t. I read it through to find that it didn’t always rhyme where it should and it didn’t always scan. Sorting these things out takes me forever – I cannot tell you how much I admire the likes of Obbverse who go through this pain regularly – each stanza is like a thorn under the fingernail and by the time I finish a poem, I really cannot stand it. I hope you are better disposed to this than I…

Haphazardly Poetical – The Wedding

A few days off and nothing prepared, so another rifle through the archive. This ‘poem’ (I realise I am stretching a point here) has been in the file for blog posts since day one. I wrote it many years ago with the intention of reading it out in lieu of The Best Man’s speech at a wedding – hence the deliberately non-pc, ‘Carry On’ feel of the whole thing. Needless to say, I didn’t do it in the end – I am still talking to the groom, although not the bride, but then again, neither is he – but it only really works (really?) when read out aloud. Try it and see – but don’t blame me…

The story I relate today
Is of my uncle’s wedding day:
He married Jane, a last resort
From one to ten, a certain nought.

It was really quite a rushed affair
Some said he did it for a dare
Some said he was too young a lad
Some darkly hinted he was mad.

He hadn’t proposed and nor had she,
She’d just demanded “Marry me!”
And he accepted, voice quite calm
Despite the fact she’d broke his arm.

And he was not the greatest catch –
From athlete’s foot to thinning thatch –
A body that had missed its best
In nylon pants and grey string vest.

Still, time flew by, the church was booked
My brother thought “Well I’ll be blowed.
I never thought this day would come.”
And slyly drank a tot of rum.

As both the families settled down
All hats and frocks and coughs and frowns.
All hankies tucked down in the ruffles
To be brought out at the merest snuffle

And Aunty Jan gave Jim a boot
For laughing at the bridegroom’s suit.
Then all their eyes turned to the door
And Uncle slid down to the floor.

The organ played ‘Here Comes The Bride’
The groom had thoughts of suicide.
He turned to see his sweetheart, Jane,
And decided he was quite insane.

She shuffled gaily down the aisle
All bandy legs and grisly smile.
A flower in her matted hair –
The bridal gown from Mothercare.

The vicar looked down at his watch
And slyly took a slug of scotch
Whilst looking round the wooden pews
He hated what he had to do:

To tie with matrimonial knot
This woman and a stupid clot
Who looked as bright as a slurry pit
And smelled – he thought – of chicken manure.

“Dearly beloved” he began to say.
“We are gathered here today
To join in matrimonial bliss
This couple who will shortly kiss

To finalise their wedding vow:
A lifetime’s oath – at least for now –
To be co-joined for ever more.”
The vicar stared down at the floor.

And closed his eyes, the slightest pause
To let someone find rightful cause
Why they should never be permitted
To ever let their genes be knitted.

The congregation then all rose
And aunty May crushed Ivan’s toes.
So Ivan, in retaliation,
Ripped apart her pink carnation.

“You swine!” she yelled and kicked him hard
Where he would least like to be scarred
And falling down he screamed in pain
As she kicked him very hard again.

“Don’t scream at me,” she said. “Take that!”
And hit him with a prayer mat.
“Now let us pray,” the vicar said
As Aunty May kicked Ivan’s head.

“You make me sick,” Aunt Daisy spat.
“You shouldn’t hurt the man like that.”
Aunt May said “Just you keep it out.”
And hit her with a hefty clout.

Then Daisy cried out, “Well I never.”
And hit back with a rolled umbrella.
So Aunty May, with temper flared,
Ripped out a chunk of Daisy’s hair.

The vicar now was in a panic;
The going’s-on were quite satanic.
“Love your neighbours, please,” he cried
And turned in terror to the bride.

He quickly grabbed the couples’ hands
And asked them both if they would stand.
The preacher, frightened for his life,
Pronounced that they were man and wife.

The organist, in state of shock,
Played madly to the gathered flock.
The choir sang a verse or two
While hiding down behind a pew

And as the punches flew each side
The bridegroom leaned to kiss the bride
But tripped and ripped her wedding gown
And pulled her Marks & Spencer’s down.

The vicar, having taken oaths
Was shocked to see her without clothes.
The verger, made of sterner stuff
Stared at this vision in the buff.

The bridegroom saw what he was taking
And all at once he started shaking.
He looked at her in consternation
And dreaded the thought of consummation.

Still, that was that, his fate was sealed
As in the tower the church bells pealed.
They walked outside into the air
And a pigeon dropped one in his hair.

His face turned up towards the sky
And it dropped another in his eye.
“You wait!” he yelled, his voice was strained
As pigeons flapped and droppings rained.

The photographer, a redundant hosier
Had once been arrested for over-expos-i-er
But now he stood and shook his head
“Come on now boys and girls,” he said

And Uncle Jim gave his biggest smile,
Which baffled everyone for a while
‘Cos he’d put his teeth in back to front
He looked a sight, the silly fool.

The cameras flashed and so did Jane
And Uncle swallowed hard again.
Then all was done, confetti gone
The pigeon dropped another one.

The couple climbed into the car
And sped towards the local bar
Where the party raged in all its glory,
But that I’m afraid is another story…

…which I also have on file, so behave, or I may publish that as well!

Mrs Slocombe

A jockey once promised his horses
He would run them on only short courses
‘And also,’ he stated
‘Let my stallion be mated.’
A decision it fully endorses…

I toy with limericks all the time. Sometimes they just fall into my head complete, but mostly they drive me half mad. Generally they loiter between my ears for days, short of one crucial line or another. Getting the rhyme is easy, getting the correct ‘rumpty tumpty’ scan quite another. They often stand or fall on a single misplaced syllable, and finding the unexpected punchline for line five can be a real pain in the… oh, you know the word, one syllable, rhymes with farce. (Or pass in the US. Same place, same pain.)

…And you have to be so careful where you start – let’s face it There was an old lady from China is only heading one way isn’t it?

I posted quite a lot of ‘poetry’ back in the day under a ragged little thread of The Haphazardly Poetical (including a number of limericks under the title of There was an old poet called Lear) and also a series of Zoo posts – one for each letter of the alphabet – over twenty six weeks, which drove me the other half mad. There are some great poets on this site and, sadly, I am not among them, so my ‘poetry’ posts always seem a little incomplete to me: like I am somehow short-changing you, dear reader, but I do think I can knock out a decent limerick from time to time. (Reading back the limericks in ‘…Lear’ I did, with the luxury of four years passed, allow myself a quiet chuckle at some of my own rhymes. It’s weird how quickly you forget what you slaved over only a very short time ago e.g. removing the Top Secret documents from your shower before the feds drop by and your voter approval goes through the roof.)

I do have one or two long poems that have the potential to appear as independent posts in the future – but, on balance, I think they will almost certainly stay where they are. If I have any shorter things to play with, I may well drop them into the bottom of an unconnected post from time to time to see whether you are paying attention.

So, I planned to finish today’s little tussie-mussie with another limerick, but even as I started to write it down, a quite different little ditty burst into my brain complete (although without, it now seems, a beginning) and It is at this point that today’s little smorgasbord took off in a slightly unexpected direction, earning itself the title it most certainly did not have half an hour ago. It is this new limerick with which I am actually going to leave you with today, of which I would be totally ashamed if I was not able (due to the great power of afterthought) to dedicate it to the wonderful Mrs Slocombe (Mollie Sugden) of Are You Being Served? You can read about Mollie Sugden here – but it will do her no justice, because in an age of hyper-laced up sexuality, Mrs Slocombe’s pet cat, Tiddles – of course it was – kept a nation enthralled for more than a decade. She will be familiar only to people of my own vintage and nationality, but it’s my blog, so bugger it.

Though the man was incredibly wussy¹
She told him without any fuss he
Could happily pet her
Enormous red setter
But he had to stop stroking her pussy

¹ Wussy: (UK slang) weak, timid and ineffectual

From the Sunbed #3 – Sun Cream

On sun and the ginger-haired male.

I squirt the bloody stuff upon my legs
I squirt it on my thigh
I put it on my forehead
And it runs into my eye.

The label says I have to have
A solid, even layer
I try my very hardest
But I haven’t got a prayer.

I miss the red bits down my back
The chafe behind my knees,
My nose is like a beacon
‘Cos the sun cream makes me sneeze.

The SPF is so immense
No matter what the therm is
The nasty UVB rays
Should not reach epidermis.

I hide under assembled shades,
A hat upon my head,
My skin is sleek and oily
But still shines scarlet red.

It doesn’t seem a minute
Since I last looked at my watch,
But here I am as ugly red
As Mick Hucknall’s* sweaty crotch.

It doesn’t really bother me,
My ego is quite small,
I’m happy to look foolish
I don’t care much at all.

It simply doesn’t matter:
I have my super-power
And I know my shattered epiderm
Will just wash off in the shower…

*For the benefit of the Simply Red singer’s lawyers, I must point out that I am referring here to an entirely different red-haired, ego-maniac cock.

New Folk Songs

It is well over a year since I published my last ‘poem’ at which time I decided that I had bitten off more than I could ever have chewed and that I would be perfectly happy if nothing in the world ever rhymed again. The songs that follow are definitely not poetry, but they do rhyme. What they sound like is up to you – although one of them, at least, has a tune that you might recognise. Be creative. Stick your finger in your ear and sing through your nose whilst I go get the cider…

The Gardener’s Lament

Begonias, petunias and purple columbines
Hydrangeas, photinias and orange clemetines
Bulbs and rhizomes, little seeds:
Plant them down and tend their needs.
Water them to make them grow,
Keep the weeds down with a hoe.
Celebrate each little bud,
Protect the stems with splints of wood.

The snails will visit with the slugs
In numbers that will make us mugs –
We gardeners who trust to luck
The treasure we plant in the muck.
However much they’re worth you know
Invertebrates won’t let them grow:
They’ll eat your seedlings overnight.
And all your beds will look like shite.

So out we go with torch at night,
With hatred that we know will harden,
To find the buggers in the light
And throw them onto next door’s garden.

Geraniums, delphiniums and pastel phlox,
Nasturtium, and allium and pink hollyhocks
Bulbs and rhizomes, little seeds:
Plant them down and tend their needs.
Water them to make them grow,
Keep the weeds down with a hoe.
Celebrate each little bud,
Protect the stems with splints of wood.

At night the bloody cat will prowl
And dig your seeds up with a howl
That says ‘I’m going to sit right here,
On all the plants that you hold dear
And when I’m done, I’ll bury it –
This steaming little pile of shit –
Where you will find it with your nails
Upon the morn whilst picking snails.’

So out we go with water guns
To catch the bleeder while he’s napping
To drench him when he tries to run
And hope that that will stop him crapping.

But in the end, you can always tell he
Will laugh in your face when he’s shit in your wellie (Repeat x3)

The Old Rover

I bought the old Rover at the end of last year
After saving my money from whisky and beer.
I pushed in the key and I got it to start
With a sound not unlike an electrical fart.

To the end of the drive was as far as it went
Cos the engine was shot and the axle was bent,
The window fell out when I opened the door.
I put my foot down and it went through the floor.

So I went to the seller and I said ‘It’s a joke.
This car you have sold me is totally broke:
The wipers fell off when it started to rain.
The roof is a sieve and the sump is a drain.’

He laughed in my face when I gave him the key
‘If you’re wanting a refund, then don’t look at me.’
It was then that the bumper fell onto the floor
Oh I never will buy an old Rover no more.

And it’s no nay never,
No nay never no more
Will I buy an old Rover,
No never no more.

I tried to drive off, but I was stopped by the law
So I never will drive the old Rover no more.

So it’s no nay never,
No nay never no more
Will I buy an old Rover
No never no more (Repeat ad nauseum)

Fruit Song*

An apple a day keeps the doctor at bay
A banana might frighten the nurse
A ripe tangerine
Makes the Registrar green
But a kumquat will make him much worse.

A greengage or plum makes a midwife quite glum
A lychee might turn her to drink
A sweet nectarine
Might appear quite obscene
To the average sub-Freudian shrink.

Psychiatrists feel that a lime has appeal
And a pineapple can be quite cute
A lemon can ease
The desire to sneeze
Whilst the prune takes a diff-er-ent route.

There are few who can reach the allure of a peach
Whilst a raspberry’s sex on a cane
A strawberry just
Makes my mind fill with lust
And a gooseberry drives me insane.

Let’s shout hip hooray for the doctors who say
That a mango is good for your sight
There are some say a fig
Makes your manhood grow big
Well you never quite know, it just might.

The Scrumlops Fall

When the scrumplops fall
And the Jaspers** call
Tween galls that froth
On tinstance broth
Then I will find the limpon quay
Full snore and we at twenty three
Wherever snile will stand in grome
And litterbuss will guide us home.

Some bastard has let me bike tyres down again (Repeat x3)

*The Fruit Song was written many years ago for an ill-starred project with John Junkin and Crispin Underfelt. I don’t think it ever had a tune. I’m happy for you to make up your own – just don’t ask for royalties!

**I have just remembered that when I was a boy, wasps were known as jaspers. I have no idea why…

In addition to the 52 short rhymes that made up the Zoo, you may well be able to find other bursts of cadenced prose from me by looking for ‘The Haphazardly Poetical’. This, if you’re interested ‘An Appreciation of Poetry‘ is my favourite.

Christmas Past – ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas

(with abject apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)

Throughout this Christmas week, in addition to my normal seasonal posts (on Tuesday and Friday) and in the long-established TV tradition of festive repeats, I will re-post six of my very favourite Christmas offerings from Christmas Past. The fifth of these reposts is from my very first WordPress Christmas in 2018 and is, I think, my very favourite Seasonal Special to date…

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
It should have been squeaking away at its wheel
Not laying face down and stiff in its meal.

There’ll be tears in the morn’ when she comes with his bread
And your dear little daughter discovers him dead,
But still, do not worry, she will not stay sad
When she spots, through the wrapping, that she’s got an i-pad.

The stockings we hung by the chimney with strings,
Were not for all the extravagant things:
For those they have hanging, at the end of their beds
Two giant sacks with their names on instead.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
Whilst visions of smart phones danced in their heads
And mummy and I, with an hour to kill,
Were fearfully reading the credit card bill.

When out in the street arose such a din,
‘Cos the people next door were trying to get in,
But the key they were trying was turning no more,
Which wasn’t surprising – it wasn’t their door.

‘If you hadn’t guzzled that last Famous Grouse,
You’d have known straight away that it wasn’t our house.’
Said the wobbling wife as she stumbled for home
And was sick down the back of a small plastic gnome.

‘It’s four in the morning,’ an angry voice cried.
‘Just shut up your racket or I’m coming outside.’
Then all became silent, except, from afar
The sound of a key down the side of their car.

As dry leaves start falling from autumnal trees,
So snow began drifting along on the breeze
And high in the sky at the reins of his sled,
A white bearded man with a hat on his head.

‘Now Dasher, now Dancer, now Prancer and Vixen.
On Comet, on Cupid, on Donner and Blitzen!’
He cried to the reindeer in tones slurred and merry,
Having just swallowed down his ten thousandth sherry.

And then, for a moment, I heard from the roof
An outburst of language that seemed most uncouth,
Then a flash by the window – a red and white blur
Of fat man and white beard; of red felt and fur.

He knocked on the door when he’d climbed to his feet
And adjusted his cloak ‘gainst the cold blinding sleet.
‘Just give me five minutes to sit by your fire
And I’ll see that your children get all they desire.’

We gave him some tea and both patiently sat
As he talked about this and he talked about that
And then, having eaten the last hot mince pie
He rose and he slapped on his red-trousered thigh.

He yawned – ‘I must return to my duty
My sled is still packed with a mountain of booty.’
And then, as he turned to the door with a wave
We reminded him of the promise he gave.

‘Of course, yes,’ he laughed, his jolly face beaming.
‘But quick now, while the kids are still dreaming.
Here, look at this dolly with glass-beaded eyes
And this wig and some glasses to make a disguise.’

‘A car made of tin and a train made of wood.
This big Snakes & Ladders is really quite good.
An orange, some nuts and a new, shiny penny.’
But electrical goods he hadn’t got any.

‘You conman,’ we cried. ‘You are not Santa Claus.
If we’d known it we would have left you outdoors.
The real Father Christmas would not carry such tat.
We want top class products – and brand names at that.’

‘Our kids will go mad if we give them this shite:
There are no soddin’ batteries and no gigabytes.
They don’t give a monkeys about innocence lost;
Just leave them a bill so they know what stuff costs.’

He turned to us now and his eyes filled with tears,
‘These presents have kept children happy for years.’
We looked at the list of the rubbish he’d got.
‘You silly old fool, you are losing the plot.’

He sprang to his sleigh crying ‘Sod this, I’m beat!’
And they all flew away to their Lapland retreat,
But I heard him exclaim ‘They are never content.
Now the thought doesn’t count – just the money you’ve spent.’

And so Christmas morning descended with gloom.
The children both rose and they looked round the room
At the i-phones, the i-pads, the Xbox and games
And they pulled at the labels and picked out their names.

Then at last they had finished, all presents unwrapped,
And we sat down for breakfast all energy sapped.
‘This is lame,’ they exclaimed. ‘This day is a bore.’
‘We’ve only got what we asked Santa Claus for.’

Then they saw on the floor where the old man had stood
A doll made of cloth and a train made of wood
And happily, low-tech, they played all the day
Whilst we packed all of their i-stuff away.

Originally posted 22nd December 2018

Zoo #52 – My Last Word on the Subject

The beast that shakes the tiger’s cage
And stirs gorillas into rage,
Who loads the straw on camel’s back
And goads the lions to attack.

Who throws the dregs of KFC,
Pulls faces at the chimpanzee
And finds in every petting zoo
The chance to pinch a chick or two.

Who locks away in fenced-in void
The species that it first destroyed.
The beast that should be in a pen
We call it Homo Sapien…

The zoo is now closed.

Zoo #51 – Monkey

A monkey screamed with righteous rage
At those who locked him in a cage.
So sad for him, he didn’t know,
They’d chopped his home down long ago.

This was one of the very first Zoo Rhymes that I wrote, but it seemed so melancholy that I sat on it until now. It emanates from the films of the last Orang Utan climbing to the very top of the only tree left standing in the middle of a burned out forest. The pictures are excruciatingly sad, particularly as the Orang is pretty much as close as we get to a family in the wild. The real selfishness of the human race is that it puts its own needs so far above the needs of every other species, whilst it salves its conscience by preserving the last of the line in a zoo…

NB I do know the difference between a monkey and an ape, but it’s just a little rhyme after all, isn’t it…

Zoo #50 – Rhinoceros

The short-sighted rhinoceros
Is known to try and charge a bus.
If you were driving, would you dare
To ask a rhino for his fare?

A short nonsense rhyme again this week about a rhinoceros because, well… you see I was watching a television programme about fish. The fish were blind cave tetra, and they were being introduced into a zoo’s aquarium. These little chaps wile their lives away in pitch-black caves where eyesight is of no value to them at all, so evolution has equipped them instead, with what is more or less, a highly tuned sonar system and a sense of smell that could detect a Stilton cheese in the Sahara. In return, it has taken their eyes. Now, the tank which was to become their new home was nicely dressed, very cave-like, except for one distinctly incongruous feature: in order that the fish were visible to the glass-tapping multitudes, it was very brightly lit (not, of course, that the fish would have known it). Well, it just occurred to me, if they were kept in such conditions for long enough – year after year, generation after generation, eon after eon – would evolution give them their eyes back? Is evolution reversible? Moreover I wondered, if this poor benighted planet of ours should survive long enough with us on it, would evolution start mitigating our effects on other species? Would it, perhaps, rob the elephant of its tusks given that tuskless elephants were much more likely to survive to old age without becoming part of a piano? Would it rob the sharks of their fins, because on balance, what was lost in agility might be gained in stealth (eg not being spotted off the beach by troubled town sheriffs) and the liability not to wind up in noodle soup? Would whales cease to be slaughtered by the Japanese if they could monitor their own stocks? Could the leopard change its spots? Would rhinos evolve without horns; shorn of the fearsome ability to charge, but far less likely to be consumed by some ancient idiot with erectile dysfunction? Could the human race begin to realise that it is merely part of a whole, and not the entire reason for its being? I’m not sure, but I shall keep a very close eye on the tetra…