Tag Archives: parody

Poor Old Santa

Written for Word Of The Day Challenge: Reflect

With apologies to the oft-disputed author of ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas

 It's a dim little Christmas we're having this year,
 stranded from family and friends we hold dear.
 Factions are splattered all over the place,  
 there is fear and denial, ragr and bad grace.
 World leaders sit haggard on prickly fence
 while scientists struggle to make them see sense.
 Conspiracy geeks prittle predictable prattle
 and the papers continue to treat us like cattle.
 Mother is shielding and father is fraught
 by the dreadful cost of the gifts that he bought.
 Business is failing, his debts are a-growing,
 since Covid put paid to the seeds he was sowing.
 His children are sleeping in confident bliss
 faithfully dreaming of generous gifts.
 Santa has packed up his sleigh with great care,
 he's padlocked his storehouse and fed his reindeer.
 He's flying up high on his usual rounds;
 although visits are tricky, he won't let us down.
 Since rulings preclude him from entering chimneys
 he drops down the presents and flies away nimbly,
 with a groan in his throat and a tear in his eye;
 he'd be glad of a drink or a lovely mince pie,
 to fill his fat belly and give his heart ease -
 but he cannot risk catching a nasty disease.
 As he smoothly directs his crew through the air,
 he's pleased to be giving but filled with despair.
 He reflects that it's been a difficult year:
 There's lots of goodwill, but damn little cheer.   

©Jane Paterson Basil

We don’t have sidewalks…

country-hat-1406454__340.jpg

a sidewalk sounds like
a trodden edge of dust frilled with weeds,
a few mean inches where the horse shit doesn’t reach,
in a curling sepia image of a western town
where drawling cowboys;
losers in bar room a brawl,
are flung out through swinging doors;
and lie cursing on the ground;
where dirt encrusted-gold-diggers, up on their luck
swagger into to town to weigh their haul,
sell it, get rolling drunk and have their pockets picked
at the rollicking house of ill repute,
where course, corsetted women whose pushed-up bosoms
hint at imminent release,
lean from whore house windows, teasing men;
promising to please them for an hour or more
if they have the dollar and the horn,
enraging prim ladies, whose fingers tighten
around their husbands’ arms
as they walk sideways
along the narrow pass;
the trodden sidewalk
where the horse shit
doesn’t reach.

In the UK
housewives
and maids gave up
emptying chamberpots
onto the ground below
and we kicked
orphaned
street urchins
out of the way, giving us
the space to raise
our reeking
sidewalks
with concrete
creating the wide, clean
pavements we British
prance and parade
along today.

Posted (cheekily) for The Daily Post #Sidewalk, only to discover that their system appears to be down – but it was fun writing it…

©Jane Paterson Basil