All I can see are decorations
hence no need for speculations
"tis the season," as it were
the shopping mall's a frenzied blur.
My family all want to know
just what I want so they can go
and spend my money on some things:
Oh the joy that Christmas brings!
The tree's pressed up against my couch
the only place I get to slouch
the angel's looking right at me
and I can't see the damn tv.
My whole routine is out of whack
my face is pale my jaw is slack
another pageant at the school
and I've become a drooling fool.
Soon enough they'll all troop in
my mom-in-law will want a gin
my uncle doesn't like my dad
my nephew talks like Gallahad.
Please let me make just one request
"get out of here you little pest
and don't let mommie see those tears,"
could Christmas come every two years?




[This message has been edited by Roy Hamilton (edited December 12, 2007).]

The Real Reason for the Season

The winter solstice is the reason why
We let our current Gods come out to play
And tell us stories, make us hope and cry
To help us face the darkness when we die,
Though now we live and celebrate the day.

What the first draft might have looked like:

I'll be gone by Christmas.
You said I should go.
Slippery ice is heaven's price
For praying for fresh snow.

Christmas Eve I will be
Having fun, my dear.
I'll be gone by Christmas,
And glad you're staying here.

Tum-ta-tum-ta-tum-parum-pum-pum-pum

December’s here and I can hear the thrum
of that obnoxious kid; the dumb-dumb-dumb
and droning, chirping, moaning hum of hum-
bug sweetness fills a mall with every strum
and echo like a film of honeyed scum
on ponds. It cloaks and gums the shopping slum,
reverberates inside each tympanum,
until I think my ears and mind are numb.

But, hey, these nifty, complementary rum-
laced egg-nog thingies go down well; and come
to think on it, I shouldn't be so glum
if I can glom another sugar-plum -
hey, hon’ –a double one please, for my chum –
parum pum pum pum,
.............................. he and his drum.



[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited December 13, 2007).]

Reconstructed first draft, just prior to workshopping:

Chestnuts, burning on an open fire,
Jack Frost freezing off your toes,
Cop cars stop by your house since a choir
Reports the scent of reefer flows.

Everybody knows
That turkey on the table there
Had hoped to miss this meal tonight.
So-called friends move the mistletoe where
Your wife is waiting in moonlight.

You fear that Santa's on his way
With loosely strapped down stuff inside his sleigh.
His fickle reindeer, flying high,
Are birds that bomb with do-do from the sky.

And so I'm offering this simple plea
To those who want to go outside,
Although it's been said, you are safest in bed,
Come Christmas, be careful where you hide.

[This message has been edited by Frank Hubeny (edited December 15, 2007).]

Midwinter's Beauty

Midwinter waits for us to realize
That beauty can be cold and full moon white
As well as green in warm disguise.
Midwinter waits for us to realize
The beauty in both day and later night.
As we adjust the thoughts that guide our eyes,
Midwinter waits for us to realize
That beauty can be cold and full moon white.

'Tis the Season

I love my neighbour even less
when I am forced to grin and bear
his overweening merriness.
It’s more than I would wish to share.
He fells the trees that shade my lawn
and revs his motor, sending fumes
into my room, and blasts his horn.
I hate him most when Christmas looms.
I hate the supermarket staff
dressed up like elves behind the till,
I hate their automatic laugh,
false bonhomie, and fake good will.
I hate the heat and cotton snow
on plastic reindeer in the mall.
I hate the magazines that show
the silly frilly frocks they sell.
I hate the dinners for the poor
whose photographs appear beside
celebrities who serve them, sure
their deed is broadcast nation-wide.
I hate the people in the street
who smile as though we’re best of friends,
I wish I knew a safe retreat
until the hell of Christmas ends.



[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited December 16, 2007).]

Christmas Eve Dinner at the Childers'

Don’t even bother to treat us
to fruitcake or eggnog:
my family is having fajitas.

So your gingerbread is sweet as
the proverbial family dog?
Don’t even bother to treat us,

while you honor the holy fetus
with ham and a pagan yule log:
we’ll be enjoying fajitas.

And though you may turn up the heat as
you offer us rum-spiced grog,
don’t even bother. To treat us,

we’ll be guzzling margaritas
and going whole-Mexican-hog:
my family is having fajitas.

We’re inviting señoritas;
Saint Nick will stand agog.
Don’t even bother to treat us:
my family’s having fajitas.




[This message has been edited by Chris Childers (edited December 16, 2007).]

And in the spirit of Tom Lehrer:

Hark! The Herald Tribune sings,
Advertising wondrous things.
“Everyone who reads this hymn
Pile in line at 4:00 a.m.!
Claw the crud out from your eyes,
make financial sacrifice.
Now your kids will love you more,
come back bloodied from the store.”

Hark! The Herald Tribune sings
advertising wondrous things.


Let's add some verses! I want something I can sing.

Chris

[This message has been edited by Chris Childers (edited December 16, 2007).]

Chris, a few years ago one of the boards had an endless thread on "hark the herald...." take-offs. Here are a few of my somewhat less terrible ones, so you can imagine how bad the ones I'm not showing you are:

"Hark," the herald angels stammer:
"Mary's mom is now a gramma."

"Hark," the herald hosts confide,
"So much for the 'virgin' bride."

"Hark," the herald angels speak:
"They slapped His butt, He turned His cheek."

"Hark," the herald hosts aver:
"Just send cash. We don't need myrrh."

Hark the blessing angels give:
"Death's a bitch, and then you live."

"Hark," the herald angels cry:
"From here on in, it's safe to die."

**

Anyone else?