This poem is for Mish, who recently noted her cynicism about the festive season.
This Christmas, little dears,
The news is rather bad, I fear.
I'm very, very sad to say
You'll get no gifts on Christmas Day.
You're not on Santa's List at all,
For Santa doesn't exist at all ...
It's not that he just up and died,
It's just - he always was a lie
To keep you little brats in line -
But now he's gone ... and things are fine ...
So children, I really couldn't care
What you shout or scream or swear.
So jump and howl and yell and bawl:
Get into fucking massive brawls!
Smash the windows! Kick the chairs!
Throw the china down the stairs!
Throw the TV through the hall
And kick your brother in the balls!
When that's all done, set up a shrine
To Ereshkigal by the washing line:
You can burn your Aunty Gladdys as a sacrifice.
(If that don't work, then burn her twice ...)
Yes! Now that Santa's dead and gone,
Now that Santa ne'er was born,
Be as the Children of the Corn:
That's my advice.
Tim, your links stink, you fink!
- John Bangsund's Threepenny Planet
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- Poetry 24
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- More Sterne
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- Too hot to Raaaaaaandallllllll!
- Erin's Excellently Everlasting Effervescements!
- Slammy Infamy
- Hail Paco!
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- The Bolta. Aiyeeeeee!!!!!
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- THE SLAMMA!
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- The Snarking of the Hunt
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- Be an Opinion Dominion Minion!
- ... and Fel
- His brilliant career - from whale sushi to crumbed prawn
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- Was two peas, now three peas
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- Old Sterne
- The briefs...
- ... and the brieflets
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- EXTREEEEEEEME WYNTER!
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- Lexicon the Mexican
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