Christmas Poem

'Twas round about Christmas, and all through the house
There echoed a fart Ian claims was a mouse.

The windows and doors I hurled open with care,
To swap the thick fug for some fucking fresh air.

Three days had we snuggled upon the settee
With a duvet, some biscuts and good DVDs,
Eating bacon and burgers 'til it came to pass
A cloud of destruction escaped someone's arse.

From between hairy cheeks there arose such a cough
That I sprang from the room lest my skin would melt off.
Away to the window I flew in a trice,
While behind me a voice claimed that it was the mice.


The cloud of green gas that so threatened my core
Gave an LSD lustre to that which I saw.
Then, what to my streaming red eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so quick in the air,
I knew I was seeing Things Not Really There.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Thingy! on Whatsit! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
And up to the rooftops they rose without fuss,
Faster than even a Number 2 bus.
And I thought, as I watched them through smelly green fog
That at least I could post about this in my blog.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His nose -- how it wrinkled! his face how it scrunched!
As his poor senses registered yesterday's lunch.
His cheeks turned quite pale and I thought he might heave
As I tried to explain while I struggled to breathe.
His once-jolly mouth was drawn up in a crush,
Like a fox licking shit off a stiff wire brush;
And holding his stump of a pipe in a clench,
He lit up a match to disperse the thick stench.


A twitch of his eye and his nose and his cheek,
Soon gave me to know he could not stand the reek;
He spoke not a word, but went back up the flue,
To escape the bad smell of an imminent poo,

And laying his fingers astride of his nose,
And giving a cough, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.


But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"They'll get nothing from me if their house smells like shite."