’twas the run up to Christmas

Bad Santa

’twas the run up to Christmas and, lo and behold,
thousands of folks trudging out in the cold.
Their hands and feet frozen, the wind in their eyes.
they scrambled to get to the last few Mince Pies

The slow and infirm were trampled in the scuffle
to get to the last box of cheap Belgian truffles
While countless poor souls were lost in the fight
for a bottle of wine, to toast Christmas night.

Suddenly, the crowd spun around with a yell
and charged all at once, like a pack out of Hell.
They bashed and they battered, they pushed and they shoved
For word had got out, “M&S!” “Sale on gloves!”

“My granny would love them”,”Forget her, their mine!”
“LET ME THROUGH, LET ME THROUGH!”,”OI! Back of the line!”
From my vantage point, by a display of ties,
I witnessed the horror with my very own eyes

As each shopper vied for a place in the queue
A little old lady hobbled into view.
I cried out a warning but alas, she heard not
and was trampled to naught but a small, greasy spot

Now dashing and darting, now punching and kicking
Biting and gouging, eye poking, ear flicking
I saw one woman wield a small boy, like a club
and I watched as the poor lad started to blub

So, ’twas a mercy, when she swung with such might
that he slipped from her hands and flew out of sight
(He was found, safe and sound, some thirteen days later
in a display of cardigans, near the escalator)

Without her weapon, she was soon overcome
By a tag teaming granny and stay-at-home mum
With a zimmer frame shot to the side of the head
and a kick to the ribs, they left her for dead

They fought tooth and nail over jackets and sweaters
to answer the wishes of loved ones Christmas letters
While, in the background, the Christmas muzak plays
the same track repeated for twenty-odd days.

Son against daughter, father against mother
they beat seven Jingle bells out of each other
charging through the store like stampeding cattle
soon, the shop Santa was drawn into the battle.

He leapt from his stage, with a blood curdling yell
and upon the crowd of naughty shop-goers he fell.
He had such broad shoulders, with arms like two trees
and a right hook which would bring a Clydesdale to it’s knees

A fearsome sight in his suit of bright red
he hoisted one old dear right over his head
and with a dark chuckle, brought her down through a stack
of cut price DVD’s, snapping her back.

At the sickening crunch, the shoppers took pause
such was the wrath of this store Santa Claus.
They could tell without doubt, Kris Kringle was pissed…

And so, boys and girls, the moral of our story
is to be kind to others, or face an ending most gory.
And I heard Santa roar, as I ran for my life

Merry Christmas everyone.

National Poetry Day: Roses Are Red…Sometimes

Decided to do a 10 minute tippedy tap for National Poetry Day.
Ended up with a short poem as introduction to a longer poem. No, I don’t know what I was thinking either. Enjoy!

The “roses are red” style of poem
Has oft driven me to distraction
Being largely factually innacurate
But i’ve not, up to now, taken action
To correct the various errors
In the four line verses we all scribble
But that ends today
I’m so glad to say,
As I poetically offer a quibble…

Often, it’s said
that roses are red
And violets, bizarrely, are blue.

Of course, we all know,
that it’s not always so
and both of them vary in hue.

Roses can be
many colours, you see
And violets, likewise, can vary.

Having said that, I guess
to attempt to compress
All of that into rhyme, is quite scary

A tricky prospect, no doubt
When one’s laying out
A simple poetic endeavour

To attempt to include
The various hues
Into four short lines WOULD be clever

T’would be quite the trick
But the thought makes me sick
And I mutter, quite quietly, a curse

As my heart rate increases
I quite fall to pieces
At the prospect of writing such verses

Roses, not red
But purple instead
And violets of green and of yellow

Not to mention the pink
For the roses, I think

It was simpler, I own
With one colour alone
For each of the flowers i’ve mentioned

I think that I ought
perhaps not to have brought
this minor detail to attention

Now, my head surely aches
and my writing hand shakes
But there is just one thing left to be said

From now on, it’ll do
To say violets are blue
And all bloody roses are red!