The Last – Christmas – Supper

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the place,
The relatives are grouping and putting on face,
There's Uncle Rudolpho who's just out of jail,
And Aunt Esmeralda who put up his bail.

Cousin Ernesto with the blink and the twitch,
Those strange old twin sisters, don't know which one is which,
Third Cousin D'Laney with the triple-dee breasts,
And old man Xavier, who walks, then he rests.

There's mince pies and Yule logs and chocolate liqueurs,
Brandy butter, fruit jellies and turkey on skewers,
And the relatives are circling, they're hemming me in,
While proffering crackers and chocs from a tin.

They're all dressed in green cardies with red paper hats,
Their smiles they are corpse-like, I duck from their pats,
Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, they parrot and trill,
Pray have some Celebrations, come eat, have your fill.

A mince pie, some Christmas cake, some Iceland prawn ring?
Or Pepsi or Red Bull to give you some zing?
I smile rather manic, I'm backed in a corner,
An imprisoned Miss Muffet, a gibbering Jack Horner.

But the family keeps coming, I'm rasping for breath,
Their garland's a straightjacket, their tinsel spells death,
Will Santa be kind, lad, they ask with wolf-smile,
Their teeth they are glinting, their eyes full of guile.

I'll just check the turkey, I mutter and rise,
But they push me back down on a sofa that sighs,
There is not a bird, you know that full well,
Then on what are we dining, dear family, pray tell?

And their eyes all a-glinting, they say, oh, boo hoo,
Why our dearest young cousin, we're dining on you.

Christmas Music

Christmas music, Christmas music, playing in my head
Christmas music, Christmas music, I wish that I was dead.

John and Yoko, Pogues and Slade,
Steeleye Span and stale Yuleade,
Jolly tunes in homes and shops,
Bloody Bing Crosby, never stops,
Salvation choir with Edna Pritchard,
Sir Harry Secombe and Cliff Richard,
Humming the tunes and singing refrain,
Christmas never will be the same,
No more carols, no more hymns,
No more sherry, no more Pimm's,
Extruded snacks and glazed prawn ring,
Own-brand lager, crisps and things,
Television, X-box games,
So many relatives, don't know their names,
Conversation falters, drink canned beer,
Say it's been a helluva year,
See old auntie start to yawn,
Then we put a record on.

Christmas music, Christmas music, playing in my head
Christmas music, Christmas music, I wish that I was dead.

Johann Roasting on an Open Fire

Johann Jerusalem Montgomery Titmus,
Was a boy who decidedly hated each Christmas,
He thought pudding was stupid and crackers a bore,
And when handed turkey he promptly would roar:

I hate all my neighbours and all fellow men,
I hate them at Christmas and a year after then,
I don't wish for joy or for peace on this earth,
I hate holly and mistletoe and eggnog and mirth.

I don't want your presents, I have none to give,
I bear all sorts of grudges, I don't live and let live,
I abhor carol singers and messages of hope,
And as for old Santa, that man is a dope.

All dressed in red Lycra with a rather camp trim,
I think that all children should give a wide berth to him,
So keep all your stockings, your wine and wassail,
I'm not your disciple, your efforts will fail.

And the folks from his village despaired and then said,
He's ruining our Christmas, we wish he was dead,
So they built up a bonfire and burned him alive,
And Johann said, finally, I'm shot of this dive.