For Christmas I got you some mouldy old socks,
And a tweed jacket smelling of tar;
A flea-bitten hat in what's left of a box,
A mangy old cat that looks half like the pox,
A worn leather suitcase that is filled up with rocks,
And a card that says, "you're a star".
They came from the leprous old man on the hill.
He thought them exceptionally fine -
He loved and he cherished them each day until
He caught a disease and fell horribly ill
He knew that you'd care so he wrote out a will -
Except for the card. That was mine.
This Christmas I got you some love and devotion
With the dirt and the dust of the years -
A vague reassurance, a cosy old notion,
A pleasant if somewhat uncertain emotion,
A comfort curled up in a jar of hand lotion
And a teacup brimful of tears.
They came from the verminous man on the hill:
He'd been saving them up, you see.
He didn't need much but he kept them still,
Somedays he'd take some with his afternoon pill,
He thought that you'd like them so gave you them all -
And the card, of course, was from me.
A poem from my soon-to-be-forthcoming and maybe even forthcomingly soon-to-be Christmas edition of Badger's Dozen (so late this year that it will be out a day or so after Christmas Day). You're welcome.