A joke designed to make us wince, A tissue-paper hat that never fits – We’re all been brainwashed by them since, As wide-eyed kids, they awed us with their glitz. And don’t forget the plastic trinket, Maybe toyed with briefly, then ignored – But that’s the point, don’t overthink it, Quick nostalgia hit, and then we’re bored. A card tricks that has lost its label, Spinning tops who never get to spin, They sit forlornly on the table Till they’re swept up, heading for the bin. Let’s carbon-tax them all to hell – And call me Scrooge and Humbug all you wish, Or if you want to snub me, well, I guess just go play with your curly fish. Say what ? I ought to get a grip ? Alright !, I’ll help you pull one, dry your eyes. What’s this ? A giant paper clip ? Oh wow, I sit corrected – what a prize !
Who’s afraid of Jimmy Stewart ? Nobody, that’s who. Sometimes catty, sometimes moody, But he still comes through. And Gary Cooper isn’t bad, He’s just misunderstood – And John Wayne is a good old boy Who’s on the side of good. They may have had to play it rough Before they made their name, But once above the title Then they’re quite above all blame. So Cary Grant is Cary Grant – How could he be a thug ? And Frank Sinatra’s golden charm Will counter any drug. They may be hapless bandits, But we’re rooting for them still – They never do much real harm, They never shoot to kill. Henry Fonda is as steadfast As is David Niven suave – Not for them the sleezy gangster Or the commie Yugoslav. Until, at last, late in the day, Wanting credibility, They finally might play with fire And versatility. Their haloes have been hocked And their goody two-shoes put away – But too late, guys, too late, To find your feet in feet of clay. We longed to see your dark side shining through Throughout your height, Here and there, a sneer, a snare, An unpredicted fright – We watched, we hoped, for menace From an unexpected place, Or a cold and soulless stare Within a warm and handsome face. The poisoned glass of milk That did not sour by the end – The evil that men do lives on When done by leading men. Like seeing Peter Lorre, gentle, It’s the shock we need. Make ’em laugh and make ’em swoon – But sometime, make ’em bleed.
Actually, Peter Lorre did play a gentle and likeable character in The Mask of Dimitrios, and boy is it refreshing ! And surprisingly, Jimmy Stewart has played the bad guy three times, so best warn your spoils: firstly, pre fame, in After The Thin Man, and thirdly as by far the nicest of the outlaws in Bandolero. But it was his second trip to the dark side that was his best – as all round shit Alfred Kralik in The Shop Around The Corner. In it, he’s petty, vindictive, and physically abusived to a man he sacks for no other reason that he doesn’t like him – what a brillant portrail of a Tory !
Now whether Jesus was or not, There surely were an infant lot Who could succumb to Herod’s plot: Their bodies drawn and quartered. But where was God to stay these brutes, And spare His people’s tender fruits, And never let His nation’s roots With newborn-blood be watered ? For what uncaring god divine Would only spare His royal line ? His Promised Land – incarnadine, His folk – unsoned, undaughtered. Rejoice ! The children never died, The massacre was not applied – The priests are wrong – the Bible lied: The innocents unslaughtered.
Innkeeping’s an hon’rable trade, Whatever they say – We’re a welcome light at the end-of-day – We’re a dry roof and roaring fire That’s safe from the wolf and the bandit’s blade When legs begin to tire – And ev’ryone can call us home Who come from Babylon to Rome, Or pilgrims to Jerusalem – You won’t catch us refusing them, As long as we get paid. Or caravans from out the East, Or shepherds after one last feast Before they spend their weeks upon the hills. Our stable yard is filled with strangers – Merchants, rabbis, farmers, rangers – And the horses, camels, asses Of the ever-moving masses, Who seek shelter from the season’s chills.
But last month, after years of this life, Of seeing it all – I saw a first. A man leading a donkey bearing his wife Who was bearing his child – Poor beast ! I mean, what a load ! She was so big, fit to burst. I tell you, it fair got me riled, my friend, To make her travel so close to her end On such a bumpy road. And busy too, this time of year, With wanderers from far and near All passing through and moving on, Who all descend upon our rooms – It’s boomtime for the hostelries, We’re busier than bees.
So when they banged upon my door, I knew I hadn’t even got A patch of floor to offer them – Not even room to fit a cot. Now don’t condemn – When I, my wife and staff, the lot, Had long since given up our beds For other needful, weary heads. And yet…how could we leave them out to rot ? Maybe they were on the run, I wondered what they’d done ? But you know what ? We still could not, and so instead, We offered them the cattle shed, for what it’s worth.
The place was red with afterbirth Before the rising of the sun. Between the old tun and the ploughs, She laid the kid upon the hay That otherwise would feed the cows. And when we could, we brought a tray And kept an eye that all was well – She understood, but truth to tell We’d fifty other guests to serve each day. And they were on their way before I knew it, After just a week or two – Heading home or onto somewhere new. I guess I wish them well and all, And maybe someday years from now The child will come around to call, And maybe make it big somehow. They were the stranger sort of strangers, sure enough, In all they did, But still, they didn’t lack for love to pass down to their kid.
Ah well, better air the rooms and see the beds get made, Then pop down to the well to draw some water. But don’t you see, an innkeeper’s a good and honest trade ? Just ask that couple and their newborn daughter.
A child is born tonight, this night, Afar across the sea, Whose birth shall spark the world alight To unforeseen degree. A child is born tonight, this night, Within a distant land, Whose birth shall end all ancient rite, And all we understand.
And a thousand saints shall nurse And a thousand laws shall spring, And a thousand tyrants reign, And a thousand choirs sing, And a thousand penitents Sigh a thousand lonely pleas, As a thousand preachers preach Of a thousand heresies, And a thousand wars shall rage, As a thousand martyrs die, And a thousand hopes be dashed As a thousand others fly.
With our pious hearts aflame, We each and all shall stake a claim, Invoking but a single name: A child is born, You know his name, A child is born, You know his name, A child is born, You know his name, And joy or shame, There’s nothing now shall ever be the same.
A child is born tonight, this night, Afar from you and I, Whose birth shall bless and birth shall blight The lowest to the high. A child is born tonight, this night, Within another town, Whose birth shall bring a holy might, To challenge ev’ry crown.
And a thousand kings shall curse, And a thousand laymen pray, And a thousand goats shall graze And a thousand sheep shall stray, And a thousand cripples grasp For a thousand holy cures, As a thousand sinners fall To a thousand tempters’ lures. And a thousand signs are gleaned Of a thousand things to come, As a thousand trumpets bray And a thousand drummers drum.
With our precious hearts aflame, We each and all shall spread his fame, Invoking but a single name: A child is born, You know his name, A child is born, You know his name, A child is born, You know his name, And joy or shame, There’s nothing now shall ever be the same.
A child is born tonight, this night, Afar from what is now, Whose birth shall calm and birth shall fright And shake our ev’ry bough. A child is born tonight, this night, Within this bitter cold, Whose birth shall tell and life recite, And ever hence be told.
And a thousand lords shall leap, And a thousand ladies dance, And a thousand pilgrims trek, And a thousand scribes advance, And a thousand starving mouths Beg a thousand crusts of bread, As a thousand mourners mourn For a thousand others dead, And a thousand children born To a thousand av’rage folk Are a thousand times instilled With the thousand words he spoke.
Let our fervent hearts acclaim, As each and all come join the game, Invoking but a single name: A child is born, You know his name, A child is born, You know his name, A child is born, You know his name, And joy or shame, There’s nothing now shall ever be the same.
I wanted to write something more ambiguous in its religious outlook which could be sung by everyone without frightening the horses. And although it is far from certain that there ever was an actual human (non-miracle working, non-resurrecting) upon which a whole new religion later sprang, if there were then this is his song.
I don’t believe in Jesus, and I don’t believe the Virgin Birth – But Lord, you know I’m trying hard to find some faith in Peace on Earth. We’re slowly getting better, but the getting better comes so slow Yet watch the skies each Christmas Day, and finally you’ll see some snow ! So even though I know, oh Lord, that you aren’t even really there, I’ll sing the songs and send the cards, and hope the World is free and fair – And even as we dress the tree, and string the lights, and spark the flame, Let’s wish you Merry Christmas all the same.
I’m sorry, in a sense, that it has come to this, but there you are… Or rather, there you aren’t, you see, and neither was the guiding star. And all those prayers, and all those hymns, and all that guilt we sent your way Have only stopped a single war, and only for a single day. Best not to hope in baby-gods, or mistletoe, or helper elves – Looks like we’re on our own, oh Lord – for God helps those who help themselves ! Yet even as we make mistakes, and even as we take the blame, We’ll wish you Merry Christmas all the same.
I don’t believe in Jesus, and I don’t believe the Virgin Birth – But Lord, a hundred thousand other babes are born tonight on Earth. I don’t believe in miracles, I don’t believe in prophesies – But Lord, I long for peace tonight, regardless of philosophies. So even though I know, oh Lord, that you aren’t even really there, I thought I ought to let you know, and thought I ought to let you care – And even though I don’t believe that baby Jesus ever came, I’ll wish you Merry Christmas all the same.
It is easy, far too easy, At this mawkish time of year, To call it crass and sleazy, And commercialised veneer. Muzak-strewn and wheezy, And bubble-wrapped and cheesy, And cuddle-cute and queasy, And worthy of our smuggest sneer. But once we’d dowsed the festive ember, How then would we warm December ?
It is simple, far too simple At this twinkly time of year To only see the pimple On the face of winter cheer – The self-appointed saviour And the goon from Scandinavia Who spy on our behaviour, Yet who we’re told we should revere. So kids must don a wimple On their thoughts, and simper insincere With innocence of dimple, And conviction in the flying deer.
There’s very little needs to change, Just don’t forget that kids are smart – There’s plenty in this world that’s strange Without the need for lies to start. Tell them all the pretty stories, Tell them that they are just stories, Tell them thanks to Newton’s glories, How we know that deer can’t fly. Tell them that it doesn’t matter – Love them as they are, reply. Birds are tiny, deer are fatter, That’s the price for antler-clatter – Evolution tells us why, Despite what stories say. Robins cannot haul a sleigh, As deer cannot fill the sky.
detail of December from the Très Riches Heures by the Brothers Limbourg
Quarter Days
In March the Ladies have their day, In June, the Summer’s mid, And Mickel holds his mass, they say, In late September, come what may, Just as he always did. And then we get to Christmas… That well known day for paying rents, And hiring staff, and starting school, And other secular events That prove there’s nothing new, alas, In monetising Yule.
On winter days, in wood and dene, I love to see your leaves of green, And hang a sprig, a magic shoot, And kiss beneath your poison fruit. The glory of the mistletoe, When perched aloft and laced with snow – Your roots in wood, and never loam, But on whose bough have you made home ?
This noble tree, of age and might, Now after winter’s longest night, Is verdant still, revered with awe, As hope for yet the coming thaw. So stands this tree in frozen earth, Yet evergreen, to herald birth. Its sap e’er rising through each limb, A share of which our pest will skim.
And so the shrub upon the branch Brings wine and feast to winter’s blanche. Its prey brings strength, so won’t be killed – Like rings of growth on which to build, And spreads afar across the sea, Till greater yet than e’er the tree – For now our bush has such acclaim It proudly bears a Latin name.
But lo, the mistle buds a shoot That like its host has taken root, With leeching tubers digging in, A diff’rent plant, but of its kin. This child shall conquer half the world With winter blooms of gold unfurled – And incense sweet their bouquets sow, And berries bright with stellar glow.
And yet the saps of long ago Within this parasite still flow So little changed, it simply thieves Then decks them out in diff’rent leaves. So ev’ry living thing must fight Against all predatory blight, For even here, we see the grow Of yet another mistletoe.
But this one’s hued in scarlet bright, With fur and bristles dense and white – And though as yet too small to see Alone, without its parent tree, So still its roots have bitten deep, And spreads its seeds while yet we sleep – In just one night, their airborne ride Shall leave them by each mantel-side.
Crackers crack and streamers stream With gingerbread and clotted cream, And dancing fairy lights a-glow Between the carols and the snow There’s something this year diff’rent, though…
Look, I don’t mean to scare you, It isn’t something that’s gonna hurt – I just thought I ought to prepare you, To keep your eyes and wits alert. Because you’re growing up, you see – It can’t be helped, it has to be.
Yeah yeah, it’s all that mushy stuff, That touchy-feely slushy stuff, That boring stuff like peace and love – I guess you’ll find out soon enough.
There comes a time as you grow older And the snow turns into sleet, When sprouts have grown a little colder, And the needles prick your feet – It isn’t much, just little things As you become aware, I guess, Of all the cold the Winter brings, When tinsel shines a little less.
Don’t worry, there’s still lots of fun – And presents – when all’s said and done. I guarantee you’ll have a ball – I mean, it’s Christmas, after all ! And all that carey-sharey stuff, Comes nat’rally – it’s not so tough When you are growing big and tall – I guess you’ll find out, soon enough.
I wrote this several years ago, so when I say “There’s something this year diff’rent, though…” this isn’t meant as a reference to the bizarre upending that is 2020.
Rhyming Couplets 