A well-attended, pleasant evening in the run up to Christmas saw some 20 Macclesfield Writers reading their entertaining poems and short stories specially written for the occasion. These were sandwiched round a break for traditional mince pies scoffed to carols tinkled out by Jacquie Spry on piano and in the second half, several pieces used lines from the lyrics of “White Christmas” as a starting point, which gave us the excuse to sing our rafter-safe version first.
It’s that time of year again for some jolly Santa banter,
spy reindeer in the night sky pulling sledges at a canter.
Upon snow-laden rooftops, you may see a rotund figure
stuck halfway down a chimney, which will likely cause a snigger.
His cheeks are puce. Soot smuts his beard. His sack’s crammed full of toys.
His red-nosed reindeer, Rudolph, coughs and makes a snuffling noise.
They really should be home in bed in Lapland snug igloo,
not gallivanting roof to roof when it’s less than minus 2.
But kiddies count on Santa for their special Christmas treats
and Santa puts on weight with all the mince pies that he eats.
So he gallops round on Christmas Eve, squeezes down each chimney stack
and as long as kids believe in him, each year he will be back.
So, sweeties, don’t be cynical. That kind old man in red
just needs to be believed in to leave toys beside your bed.
With Every Christmas Card I Write
December the 1st. and it won’t be long
before my clichés are all snowy white
and Yuletide platitudes colour my song
with every Christmas card lyric I write.
And the telly blares out its seasonal pap.
There’s scarcely a watchable programme at all,
so I’ll doze off for post-prandial nap.
It’s repeats and re-runs from lounge wall to wall.
“Queen’s Speech” and “Strictly” and “Dad’s blooming Army”.
It’s not just the dinner that’s laden with stodge.
One more jingle bell will drive me quite barmy –
and twee tinselled fir trees? Impossible to dodge. (Not easy to say either)
And what of those cards with their round robin letters:
cruises up fjords, the Baltic, the Med;
those grades! Little darlings! Who could have done better?
then detailed descriptions of pets sadly dead;
a half page on weddings of offspring in Oz
and distant relations you won’t meet and don’t know;
thank goodness for Brexit, the world as it was.
(Now there’s a good reason to cry, “No! No! No! No!”)
And yet I’m no Scrooge. It’s the strangest of things,
I even go soppy when I consult Bing®.
So again I write cards to all who I know
and where rooftops glisten,
I still get a frisson
hearing old Santa’s laugh, “Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!”