A Concussed Christmas

 (i)

In the frostbitten blue night sky,

a gleaming white of sleigh tracks

flashes past, like the reindeer

just blew on their hooves and "giddy-up".

Down below (where there should be snow),

rivulets of Buckfast run in the gutters

as presents fall on unsuspecting peasants.

Heads up for a concussed Christmas. 

(ii)

What do you want from me, Santa?

I say NO! to your Ho-Ho-Ho.

You're old and tired and don't exist.

Why don't you go back to the Pole?

You're a big man and out of shape

and red and white? It don't suit yer.

If you dare to come down my chimney

then I swear that I will shoot yer.

B.R. 19.12.2021