one from the heart
Peace and goodwill? As if. I know the score.
It's not just shopping orgies, Roger Moore,
unhealthy food and sentimental cheer
shallow and transient as cheap veneer
that make me dread the season. It's the role
it casts me in – a glowing, hearty soul,
which I am not. Supposedly benign,
I nod and smile inanely as we dine.
Each slice of tasteless turkey, each mince pie
curdles my gut like swallowing a lie.
Come early-evening tv time I snub
the tribal madness, sneak off to the pub
throw whiskies down till time is called, then, sunk
in seasonal disgust, distempered, drunk,
throw up my dinner in a midnight taxi.
Christmas? You can stick it up your jacksie.
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