Tuesday, 24 December 2019

A seasonal ballad

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the House;
The only thing stirring was an occasional mouse;
(Despite the endeavours of cats and of men;
The mice just kept breeding, then breeding again.)

In the warmth of his chambers in the shade of Big Ben;
The Speaker was feeding his pets in his den;
A parrot called Boris, his Rottweiler, Pat;
And Maggie, and Betty, and Dennis the cat;
And when he’d retired to his bed for the night;
A fairy came calling, and pleased at the sight;
Of animals various feeding together;
Thought this lot will easily suffer the weather;
And other privations of a cold winter’s night;
And turned them, each one, into unicorns: white;
“With harness and sleigh and your great horns of gold;
Tonight you’ll pull Santa, like the reindeer of old.”

In the dark dingy attic above Number 10;
Boris and Carrie were sleeping but then;
From the roof o’er their heads there arose such a clatter;
They sprang from their bed to see what was the matter;
Unicorns in harness aren’t easy to steer;
Imagin’ry creatures no match for reindeer;
With no time for practice or training at all;
Santa had crashed, straight into the wall.

As Santa recovered whilst sat on the floor;
Boris rushed out through the famous black door;
His face creased in smiles as he let out a cry;
“I never expected my unicorns to fly”.
“They don’t”, said St Nick, “or at least not as well;
Reindeer do better, as you plainly can tell;
Your lies and dishonesty will ne’er be forgiven;
But I try my best with the team that I’m given.”

Turkeys, they say, never vote for the feast;
It’s longstanding wisdom, for politicians at least;
But Boris was different, with his gift of the gab;
He’d convinced many turkeys the feast would be fab;
A sleigh pulled by unicorns was easily sold;
To those who believed his promise of gold;
His delusions of grandeur came forth at a canter;
He even believed that he could be Santa.

As Santa prepared to return to his work;
He heard Boris moving and turned with a jerk;
To see Boris leap to the seat of the sleigh;
The unicorns impatient to be on their way;
Boris picked up the reins and gave a quick whistle;
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight -
“Happy Christmas to turkeys; to turkeys good night!”

With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore.

1 comment:

Mel Morgan said...