before doing a runner

she cut down my tree

pine needles all over

festive debris to see

 

fairy dead on the rug

each bauble smashed

lights cables tangled

my Christmas dashed

 

should have twigged it,

axe-heads lit her eyes

our rapport splintering

ate my last mince pies

 

a forest of complaints

calling me dead wood

unhappy with my log

called my pud a dud

 

craved harder wood

some gigolo forester,

Christmas spirit lives:

adieu, and God rest her