Sometimes, presents are boring, And nothing more than a pair of socks, And they never thought to keep the receipt – So we leave them mint in the box. And next year, when we’re short of a gift, We cheat –
We pass the parcel, Round and round, Re-wrapped and tagged, And tagged and wrapped, Until a welcome home is found, Or else it’s broken, lost, or scrapped.
Sometimes, presents are boring, And nothing more than love and peace, And sparing a thought to live-and-let-live. So we leave them, tossed-aside and creased. But next year, when they’re short of them both, We give.
We pass the wishes, Round and round, Beyond the walls, Across the rift, Until the needed hope is found, Within an unexpected gift.
On the second morning afterly The Feast of Middle-Winter, I walked-out with my true-love Through the brittle lambent-glinter – I walked-out with my true-love Till our cheeks were flush with pinking, And I asked my wind-teased beauty To me whisper of her thinking. The said she thought of Crystal Jack, A diligent delinquent, Who caught the sun and shone it back As glistered-golden clinquant. I walked-out with my true-love ’Cross the sparkled, gelid loam, And so we warmed each other’s breaths Until the starlings bid us home.
On the Second Day of Christmas We rode out with the pack, And we galloped through the woods As we waited the attack. On the Second Day of Christmas We cast the braying hounds As they scurried for the scent And they ran the fox to ground.
So blow the horns and raise the cries, Let slip the hounds and shred the prize, And show to all your blameful eyes This menace needs controlling.
On the Second Day of Christmas We wished for peace on Earth As we hollered for the fox As we wrenched it from its berth. On the Second Day of Christmas As we cantered through the mud, And wished to all goodwill As we slathered for the blood.
So blow the horns and raise the cries, Let slip the hounds and shred the prize, And show to all your blameful eyes This menace needs controlling.
A child is born in dead of winter, Child to bring the summer in – He teases rainbows from the sunshine, Lets enlightenment begin. He brings us universal laws – For as above, then so below. He shows the path that we must follow, Teaches how the heavens go.
Brightly shines his star above In both his eyepiece and his eyes – His clockwork earth perturbs the sun, His motion never dies. He shows us how all things must love – We all attract and all obey. So promises the savant one Who’s born on Christmas Day.
A child is born in dead of winter, Child to set the world alight – He mechanises all our fluids, Magnifies the heavens bright. He stands atop the giants’ shoulders, Calculates the cosmic story – From the leastest fractions upwards, His the powers and the glory.
He wants to save the human genus From the couterfeiter’s haul. Apples are the fruit of learning – Worlds shall rise to meet their fall. He shows us how the warmth between us Never really goes away – Hark the one who keeps us burning, Born on Christmas Day.
Many sources cite Isaac as being born on 25th December 1642, while many others claim it was on 4th January 1643. Both are correct. At the time of his birth, the Julian Calandar was still in use in Britain, but the 10-days-ahead Gregorian had been adopted in continental Europe (and more to the point, by the modern audience reading those dates).
Likewise, the day he died can be shown as variously 20th March 1726, 20th March 1727, or 31st March 1727. So, firstly, during his lifespan the Julian had drifted to 11 days out (which accounts for the 31st March reference). And secondly, the official New Year’s Day in England was 25th March, thus 1726 ran from 25th March to 24th March (four days after he died) – but again, this is often retrospectively adjusted (or sometimes half-adjusted, changing the New Year but not the Calandar)
All-in-all, a curious mix-up over a man obsessed with orbits.
That moment children weigh the facts, And work them through with careful thought, To ponder if he really acts The way their parents always taught. To question all authority And realise we told them lies, Then suss their top priority Is not to let us know they’re wise.
Never try to hold them back, But let them grow – For when the story starts to crack Don’t heap on shams to stem the flow, But cheer them on to think it through – For this shall be, by all that’s true, In all the days we each shall live, The greatest gift we’ll ever give.
That moment when they favour fact Above a charming fairytale That they still wish could be intact, But know must come to no avail. To question all authority And not be swayed, is when they take Their first step to maturity That tells the honest from the fake.
Never try to hold them down, But let them rise. For buried in frustration’s frown Are cogs and sparks and watching eyes. So spur them on to think it straight, To reason out and cogitate. In all their days, this stands alone – The greatest gift they’ll ever own.
A Drummer Boy of the Royal Scots Dragoon by George Joy
Little Drummer Boy
Rat-a-tat-tat, Came the boy with the drum, In red coat and drumsticks ’tween finger and thumb In his breeches of blue, With his skin taut and true, With a rat-a-tat-tat, And a roll and a thrum, He silenced the scrum With a snare tattoo – He may have been dumb, And his feet felt numb, But he pounded his drum In a one-one-two.
He played for the Lord, And the right of the sword, With his rat-a-tat-tat, And the planes and the bombs, On his tom-a-tom-toms, With a splat-a-tat-splat. And he drummed-in the troops With his patterns and loops, And he drilled the recruits In their berets and boots, And he stamped his feet For these proud mothers’ sons, In a perfect beat To their crack-a-crack guns.
On the holiest night, With a rat-a-tat-tat, He led the Lord’s might With a gat-a-gat-gat. And guided by drones, So he led the bombs home, Then marched all the dead out to Kingdom Come. With a rat-a-tat-tat, And a mournful hum, So the innocents died To the beat of his drum.
The People’s Trees are greenest green – They’re marching forth since Halloween. On chilly days and snowy nights, They proudly bear their fairy lights.
So raise your verdant branches high, And hoist your red star to the sky – Though humbugs scoff and scrooges sneer, We’ll keep the green tree growing here.
When Christmas time is ruinous, With profiteers pursuing us, Their simple charm bring us delight, And help us through the silent night.
So raise our battered spirits high, And help us keep our powder dry. Let bankers curse and workers cheer – We’ll keep the green tree glowing here.
Oh Tannenbaum, oh Tannenbaum, For needlekind we’re pining. Oh Tannenbaum, oh Tannenbaum, We’ll keep the green tree shining.
“First name and last name, That’s all I’ll call you, No to initials or multiple-barrels, No truck with nicknames, Or maidens or middles, Or unusual spellings and other apparels. Just pick out a name that you wish to be called by, And that I shall call you – That and no other. So don’t be contrived, or obscure, or untrue, Though it need not be that which is used by your mother. Now no lords or ladies, no highness or sir, Just easy to spell out and easy to read. And none of that senior, junior, third – First name and last name, that’s all that you need. I’ve no time for Bobs or for Bills or for Bazzas, No time for Mollys or Maggies or Shazzas. Our names should be sturdy and stately and great, With every syllable pulling its weight.”
Eeza geezer, Dionysus. Gizza nuzzer to entice us Inniz wurship – God of Gordons. Bollocks to them prudy wardens Sipping on their PG Tipsy, Brewing herbs like any gypsy. Scoring tuts they hope will crack us. Help to keep us drunk, oh Bacchus ! Make us all too sloshed to care, And stink our belches, glaze our stare – Then dull their nagging, blur their saga. Piss me up, oh Lord of Lager ! Spirits call me to your shrine – Visions fill me, Vine Divine ! Awe-full shakes set me a quiver. Take this sacrifice: my liver.
