All that Cecil wanted Was a shiny yellow bike So he wrote to Father Christmas And he told him what he’d like A dozen gears Suspension spring A horn to honk A bell to ring.
Then little Cecil posted His missive in the box With a postscript at the bottom Saying “Please don’t bring me socks! A paint set’s fine Or Lego bricks A football shirt A box of tricks.”
But Cecil he insisted Whatever else he had He had to have a bicycle Or else he’d go quite mad He’d stamp his feet Or scream and shout He’d make a scene There was no doubt.
Yet Cecil had a problem Though he really didn’t know His parent’s impecunity Was something of a blow They had no cash To throw around He wouldn’t like What they had found.
And so on Christmas morning Young Cecil was bereft And he railed at Father Christmas For the rubbish that he’d left But he didn’t scream He didn’t shout He grabbed his coat And just went out.
Though Cecil went a-walking To heal his broken heart The lack of what he wanted Was tearing him apart He held back tears He wouldn’t cry His Christmas dream Was just a lie.
The hollow Christmas Story Was nothing but a joke If Santa wouldn’t help him Because his folks were broke It wasn’t fair It wasn’t right He made a plan He vowed to fight.
So Cecil took his chances Imagination fired He scanned the streets around him And stole what he desired The Christmas dream Became at best “Take what you want And sod the rest.”
The moral of this fable Is don’t just sit and moan If Santa doesn’t bring it Then go and get your own A sin, it’s true Maybe a vice You steal the bike And pay the price.
The price for our poor Cecil Was screaming in his head He wanted to be honest But he’d turned to crime instead A cost in pride A price in grief When conscience says “You’re just a thief.”
So Cecil took the cycle And made an honest stance He twice tried to return it But the owner said “No chance. My parent’s paid All that is true But it serves them right – I wanted blue…”
‘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 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.
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…
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…
Clearly a part two to last week’s ‘It’ and just as much of a ‘children’s’ rhyme. My three-year olds don’t get the joke, but they still think it is funny – and that will definitely do…
Continuing the rather more fanciful little spate of zoo poems aimed more directly at children.
This thing is like two balls of string With half a horse between. Its head is like a cream éclair; Its feet like butter beans.
A tail of green, a mane of blue, With spots along its back – A cheerful disposition Although its mood is black.
It could be `He’, it could be `She’, It could be `Them’ or `They’ (I think it knows the answer But is not inclined to say).
Its eyes are green, like tangerines, It hasn’t any hair. It’s really very common Although extremely rare.
In fact, I’ve never seen one, I promise you, it’s true, And if you stay awake all night You’ll never see one too!
Q. What is it?
A. I haven’t the faintest idea.
I’ve always written ‘children’s poems’ (even when I’m trying to do otherwise, my output seldom rises above the infantile). The absence of any call for logic is incredibly refreshing and saves hours of time in Wikipedia research. Spike Milligan had the greatest gift of writing for the child in all adults. It is something to which we should all aspire…
Having spent a few days writing poems for my grandchildren, the zoo poems have taken on a rather more fanciful air. I hope you will forgive this temporary lack of cynicism…
Once-upon-a-long-ago When all the world was cold as snow. And ice-cream grew from carrot trees And camels fluttered on the breeze There came along a fearsome beast A creature who, to say the least, Would not be happy should you laugh; The Rhinohippoeleraffe.
His eyesight was so very poor; He had a horn upon his jaw. He lived in water, eating weed To satisfy his massive greed. You may have guessed, I must suppose, He had a trunk where you’ve a nose. His fur was filled with blotchy spots. He looked like he’d got chickenpox. A neck so long he touched the sky (He never ever wore a tie) Completed this ungainly creature. (In fact it was his nicest feature.)
He had, as you may well conclude, The disposition to be rude. His temper frayed so very fast No wonder that his days have passed No longer does he walk upon The greenish land where he belonged. But then, it couldn’t last for long, He always was the only one.
If a zoo is going to hold any attraction to a child, it surely has to include a creature or two that only otherwise exists in their imagination…
A ptarmigan is a bigger partridge (Though hunters use the same size cartridge) A little larger than a grouse, Substantially smaller than a house. Its fate is often Christmas fare – It tastes a little like a hare. Ptarmigans come with a silent ‘P’, Like toddlers swimming in the sea.
The Ptarmigan is classed as a ‘game bird’ e.g. it has obviously been placed on earth with the simple function of giving the ruling classes something to point their guns at when they’re not starting wars. It is the ultimate arrogance of man that everything else on this planet has been placed here solely for our benefit and such things that clearly do not fit this criteria, probably need to be eradicated. Weirdly, the creatures we protect the best are those that we eat.
N.B. the bird was originally known by its Gaelic name ‘Tàrmachan’ until a man called Robert Sibbald (Psibbald?) thought that it would look far more classy if it appeared to have a genus name of Greek origin, so he stuck a silent ‘p’ at the front. I’ve always been intrigued by silent letters. How did they get there? I know (that is, I have been told, and I am trusting enough to believe) that some of them were originally pronounced – e.g. both the ‘k’ and the ‘g’ in the word ‘knight’ were originally spoken – but I cannot begin to imagine how ‘igh’ ended up in so many words. Some kind of lexicographical aberration. I’m sure the Greeks would have a word for it…
Getting On 