Yesterday, I sat down in front of traditional Christmas TV fare and looked around. A large bin bag of used wrapping paper lay abandoned in the corner. This bag, which looked like the result of a strike by Venetian dustmen (an unknown dog had ‘marked’ the bag), was all that was left of the pile of under-tree presents. I looked around at the slumbering forms, comatose by turkey, and realized that the percentage of post-celebration vacuum would be in direct proportion to the fun experienced…
A bin bag of scrunched wrapping paper
Abandoned outside the door,
An escapee Brussels Sprout,
By the sink upon the floor!
A platoon of empty bottles,
Standing silent two abreast,
The remains of a full-breasted bird,
A tinfoil blanket is best!
Presents have scattered widely,
From underneath the tree.
Along with their new owners,
Some now back in Battersea!
The echo of raised voices,
Excited chatter filled the hall,
“Hello darling, nice to see!”
(Some didn’t mean to say it at all!)
In the next few weeks from Christmas,
Out will go the trees,
All that will remain of the holidays,
Are some wonderful memories!
© Baldock Bard 2014
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