[Brian Allgar]

"... and fifty Thou" - nice one, Julie!

[Sylvia Fairley]

Originally Posted by Brian Allgar

"... Eh? ... 'All hearse wanes'? What's that supposed to mean?"

As a child I thought it was 'All our swine commend her' because that's what my loving brothers taught me!

[Douglas G. Brown]

Dear Santa, though I’m partly Jew,
Three small requests I ask of you;

Could you somehow obtain for me
A gentleman like Robert B.,
A suave and witty sort of man
Who’ll love the way my verses scan?

Send editors who’ll praise my name
And not complain that I’m a dame,
And have the fortitude to say
I write as well as Hemingway.

Convince those drones in Hollywood
My screenplays are supremely good
And they should offer maybe twice
My current modest asking price.

(Plus, one more thing, ‘fore you begin;
A never-ending stream of gin.)

[Adrian Fry]

Santa, I would have a doll,
Quite tiny and devoid of breath
And I would have it play at life
That it might watch me unto death.

Emily Dickinson

[John Whitworth]

Ere you begin?

[Adrian Fry]

Dear Santa, since you don’t exist
And as I find the season numbing,
I don’t want any of your gifts,
Just the boxes they come in.

Not to play with, you understand –
I no more like to play than dance –
There’s just a sense, both sad and grand
In each present’s absence.

The annual let-down Christmas is –
Santa’s just Dad, there’s seldom snow
And Mum just getting in a tizz –
I can’t wait to grow.

I’d soonest have an empty box,
A metaphor almost too knowing,
That giver and receiver mocks:
There both are going.

Larkin

[Mary McLean]

My Luve’d like a red, red rose
to mynd the lass o’ June.
My brither’d like a set o’ pipes
to blaw a merry tune.
My sister’d like a bonnie lad
to give ‘er whit she lacks.
Please Santa, fesh yer Rab a vote
agin the Sassenachs.


Too obvious I know, but it was fun to translate.

[Roger Slater]

Two toys there were on the toy store shelf,
And then and there I swore an oath
I'd write you. Santa, tell your elf
To get to work: I want them both!

[Douglas G. Brown]

A bunch of the elves are toiling for free in the North Pole Industrial Park,
Constructing the toys for brats like me who think that this life is a lark.

At latitude ninety, I know Santa Claus is perusing his Christmas mail;
Who, knowing that I am a hopeless cause, is shocked that I’m still not in jail.

Time was when I asked for a sled or some skates, or maybe a Christmas sweater;
But now I’ve progressed to women and dates, and so I want something better.

This neighborhood bully named Danny McGrew has got a bit under my skin;
He’s shagging the lady that's known as Lou, who I personally hope to get in.

I want to impress the lovely Lou, and teach little Danny a lesson;
So all that I'm asking this year of you, is a .38 Smith and Wesson.

[Jerome Betts]

Bring me Hunting Gothic Corbels,
Please, dear Santa, on your sledge,
Also, Mackintosh’s Gorbals,
And Lost Views of Wenlock Edge.

Poor old Archie keeps on moulting;
Soon he’ll be a furless bear;
People say he looks revolting,
So bring garments he can wear.

Clothes for me spell needs more flagrant–
As an ancient rhyming ham
I want khaki shorts, all fragrant
With the musky scent of Pam.

But, should this appear too shocking,
You’ll assuage my senile lust
If you leave within my stocking
A blow-up Peggy Purey-Cust!