Twas the night before Christmas and Santa’s a wreck…
How to live in a world that’s politically correct?
His workers no longer would answer to “Elves”,
“Vertically Challenged” they were calling themselves.
Twinkle Twinkle chocolate bar
Santa drives a rusty car
Press the starter
Press the choke
Off he goes in a cloud of smoke!
Santa Claus is dead –
They found him in a toy shop;
A bullet through his head.
A note pinned to his jacket,
Confirmed what papers tell:
That he was on the payroll
Of Toltoys and Mattel.
Jingle bells, jingle bells, Santa’s lying dead.
Teletubbies Teletubbies stabbed him in his head.
Barbie girl, Barbie girl tried to save his life.
Action Man, Action Man stabbed him with a knife.
Good King Wencelas went to town
In a mini minor
Crashed into an atom bomb
And ended up in China
We three kings of Orient are
Sitting on a dynamite cigar
It was loud and exploded –
Robin flew away
Lost his pants while over France
And found them in Long Bay
While shepherds washed their socks by night
All seated round the tub
And angel of the Lord came down
And they began to scrub, scrub scrub
Good King Wencelas he looked out
On a cabbage garden
He bumped into a Brussels sprout
And said, I beg your pardon.
David Martin’s poem about a typical bush Christmas seems to sum up the joys and pains of the day.
Stuffed with pudding to his gizzard
Uncle James let out a snore,
Auntie Flo sprawls like a lizard
On the back verandah floor
Grandpa Aub sits with a flagon
On the woodheap ‘neath the gums,
And he thinks he’s seen a dragon
Where the pigs are munching plums.
Cousin Val and Cousin Harry,
Cousin May and Cousin Fred,
Play the goat with Dulce and Larry
By the creek below the shed.
In the scrub the cows are drowsing,
Dogs are dreaming in the shade.
Fat and white, the mare is browsing,
Cropping softly, blade by blade.
It is hot, mosquitoes whirring.
Uncle Jamie rubs his knee:
“Flo.’ He whispers, ‘are you stirring?
It’s near time to get the tea.’