Christmas has gone like a flatulent fart

      silent night is just a mattress

the hosannas that rang no longer ring true

      three ships sailed over the bright horizon

while the sales are flexing and long overdue.

 

Family groups have dispersed once again

      the elders tucked safely away

an alcoholic haze drifts by

      on the back of the special day.

 

Poinsettas are primly still in place

      with holly and berries in spiky embrace.

watching with disdain the copycat mats

      slippers tried on and paper hats.

 

A mountain of paper is gathered up

      into bins for converting to the preached

while a spirit knocks upon the door

      to shout to the rooftops what Christmas is for

and the message of Cliff draws a shortening straw.

 

      Christmas trees will drop their needle

and pine at the thought of Jeremy Beadle.

      The conscience is pricked by Dickensian morals

as the begging bowl comes into sight.

      The future is bleak and the weather is mild,

no footsteps to darken imaginary snow.

 

      Our eyes open wide at a world outside

as the holiday ads come rolling in

      and before that image finally fails

the truth is revealed on bathroom scales.