News1 min ago
A Christmas Poem - Sort Of
Having just read Woodelf's excellent prose, thought i'd kill a half hour by composing this poignant little offering, entitled;
'The Day My Momma Told Me Santa Wasn't Real'.
Outside the snow fell gently, a white blanket on the ground
And somewhere a choir sang carols, a melodious, seasonal sound
Mum was attacking the Smirnoff as i wrote my 'Santa's' list
"Come over here, son, " she said, sounding a tad Brahms and Liszt
"You go to your bedroom" she slurred to my little sis, Ruth
Patting the floor beside her feet, she said "It's time you learned he truth."
She ruffled my hair as she spoke her words, uttered between large slurps of vodka
"I've been meaning to tell you for quite some time and i can't put it off any longer.
The Doctor has told me that, as Christmases go, i may well not see another
And if i don't tell you the truth, then what's that say about me as a mother?"
She poured herself another large glass, the bottle was almost empty
(I don't know how many shots they hold, but she must have had at least twenty)
"Each year," she said, "You write your list, and Santa grants your wish
But i never post your letters, my son. No need, it's a load of pish.
Santa Claus does not exist", she said, sincerity in her bleary eyes
"But that can't be true" i protested, "Who eats all those mince pies?
Not to mention those double brandies you insist we leave out each year"
She took another slurp and raised her hand, "Guilty as charged, my dear."
She hiccupped as she poured herself the last few drops of vodka.
"I thought you'd have guessed the truth, by now, then you were always such a plonker."
As she spoke those words, she patted my head, as if to soften the blow
"I realise it's come as a shock to you, but i thought it best you know."
With the corner of her apron, she wiped away my tears.
"Hush, hush, now" she said, "For after all, you're thirty three next year."
'The Day My Momma Told Me Santa Wasn't Real'.
Outside the snow fell gently, a white blanket on the ground
And somewhere a choir sang carols, a melodious, seasonal sound
Mum was attacking the Smirnoff as i wrote my 'Santa's' list
"Come over here, son, " she said, sounding a tad Brahms and Liszt
"You go to your bedroom" she slurred to my little sis, Ruth
Patting the floor beside her feet, she said "It's time you learned he truth."
She ruffled my hair as she spoke her words, uttered between large slurps of vodka
"I've been meaning to tell you for quite some time and i can't put it off any longer.
The Doctor has told me that, as Christmases go, i may well not see another
And if i don't tell you the truth, then what's that say about me as a mother?"
She poured herself another large glass, the bottle was almost empty
(I don't know how many shots they hold, but she must have had at least twenty)
"Each year," she said, "You write your list, and Santa grants your wish
But i never post your letters, my son. No need, it's a load of pish.
Santa Claus does not exist", she said, sincerity in her bleary eyes
"But that can't be true" i protested, "Who eats all those mince pies?
Not to mention those double brandies you insist we leave out each year"
She took another slurp and raised her hand, "Guilty as charged, my dear."
She hiccupped as she poured herself the last few drops of vodka.
"I thought you'd have guessed the truth, by now, then you were always such a plonker."
As she spoke those words, she patted my head, as if to soften the blow
"I realise it's come as a shock to you, but i thought it best you know."
With the corner of her apron, she wiped away my tears.
"Hush, hush, now" she said, "For after all, you're thirty three next year."
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The Day My Momma Told Me Santa Wasn't Real - Revisited
Ma's still with us, 5 years on, and that's what really counts
Still chugging back the vodka in never-decreasing amounts
And each and every year she drops the 'Santa' grenade
And i always go along with her drunken charade
But i'm really not as daft as i look
And i still write my Santa lists in my notebook
Not in front of mum, though, i write them in stealth
And just to make sure, i post them myself
So if you're told that Santa isn't real
Pretend to believe it, it's no big deal.
Ma's still with us, 5 years on, and that's what really counts
Still chugging back the vodka in never-decreasing amounts
And each and every year she drops the 'Santa' grenade
And i always go along with her drunken charade
But i'm really not as daft as i look
And i still write my Santa lists in my notebook
Not in front of mum, though, i write them in stealth
And just to make sure, i post them myself
So if you're told that Santa isn't real
Pretend to believe it, it's no big deal.
1 to 8 of 8
