How Awful Christmas Is

How Awful Christmas Is

A Poem by Sam

Abound was the season,

Awful Christmas the reason,

Folks would scour the earth for a deal.

Shopping in and about the outlet malls,

Somehow tolerate the tune: Deck t’ Halls.

Parade on then home; have the horses sledged,

Down on the lanes the ploughs hadn’t dredged.

The horrid ice and snow,

Plagued the family chateau,

Come upon far too early,

It wouldn’t stay pearly.

Ceaseless shovelling was with it,

Always in store;

The most lovely of tasks we’d grown to abhor.

Rolled men o’ snow guarded the lawn,

And stood by the fort until melting at dawn,

With teeth abutton, and snoot aturnip.

Young children and old,

‘D play in the cold,

Whipping ice with such fury,

‘Til blizzard struck them in flurry.

Inside they would flood,

And they’d track in the mud,

Doffing mittens and snowsuits,

Hats, jackets and snowboots,

Like the ungrateful brats that they were!

Then insolently, they’d ask for cocoa,

Without debit, cash, credit or es-c-row!

Lights adorned eaves, half-on at best,

Wryly looked at by all, neighbour and guest,

The pet laughed in jest, (albeit mute,)

Whilst inside, our father,

Now drinking beyond bother,

Had assembled the tree with vigour and brusque;

So were we, with Christmas, embroiled by dusk.

The lawbreaker alit, late in the eve,

Brought a sac and red weave

And some caribou, I believe.

Naughty pervert eyes all, while even we’re sleeping.

He went down the flue,

Ate saltines like a shrew,

And shot back to the roof where away he then flew.

Wintry evening made way for the frigid morn,

When we’d lash at paper with a jubilant scorn,

Be them boxes or bags with treasures within,

Or tumescent stockings where things had been hidden.

Up before waking,

And dragged from our beds,

By the youngest, and noisiest, most annoyingest kids.

Merry ripping and tearing of unwrapping gifts,

Led to seasoned procedure, in festivular shifts.

Curbing the fugue,

To clear up the mess,

Relieving our headaches brought on by the stress.

Finally the Yule, and Noëlian boon,

Had just about ended by mid-afternoon.

Herein smells and sounds of turkey hawked,

So we graced chair and table to-where feast had us stocked.

Gravy, mashed potatoes, and the stuffing of bread,

Along with the fowl made bulk of the spread,

The wings and the breasts and even the neck,

Were nibbled and guzzled,

And gobbled and nuzzled.

And when we were glutted, and unable to eat;

Turned as fat as the bird, and glued to our seat,

Dishes tall were passed stack,

To dear waiting mother.

One by one. Right after the other.

At last, day was done, feverish family was shuttled,

Bunked under cover, using gifted coal scuttled.

Eggnog was drunk, chestnuts were roasted,

Household was dined, wined and then toasted,

Lovers kissed under mistle,

Works of fire were missled,

And dreams of the day stung like holly or thistle.

I doubt we’ll survive, but we’ll be of good cheer,

And be about to bring in a happy new year.

© 2019 Sam

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Added on January 13, 2019
Last Updated on January 13, 2019
Tags: Christmas, Holidays, Poetry, Seasons greetings, shopping, sleigh, ice, snow, shovelling, snowmen, blizzard, boots, cocoa, lights, tree, drinking, Santa, reindeer, chimney, winter, cold, presents



Fair Verona

I do most of my writing when I'm trying to sleep. "Better a witty fool than a foolish wit." -Shakespeare. more..

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