Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas! As if the greeting wasn't enough of a giveaway, it is I, Santa Claus. I bring you the gift of festive poetry, collected.
I, Santa, sit ensnared in a particularly Christmassy concoction of fairy lights and tinsel. A disaster of a delivery (as yet incomplete), has occurred. The halls were perhaps a little too well decked. I can hear Rudolph clacking away on the roof, and my elves appear to be panicking due to the length of time I’ve taken. We’re under strict orders though, only Santa can enter. Coronavirus and all that. Now if you’ll give me a second, I think I can wriggle my hand down to my pocket, and... yes! I’ve a poem for you.
Here we go.
An elite squad of elves was in training.
They were now capable of disinfecting Santa in under two seconds.
Ho ho ho! A brilliant piece of work there. Hold on a minute, another’s pasted itself to my festive insulated handwear.
Father Christmas was up on the roof.
Mrs. Claus and the elves had devised a new training regime.
The lockdown hadn't been kind, not with The Claus's diet.
He waddled across the snow glazed slate, listing from left to right, ho ho-ing with every step.
He clambered into a chimney.
The elves lubed up his expansive frame.
They pulled out plungers and tried to prod him down to ground level.
I must admit I was hoping to keep my methods a secret, but the fall of the poems, like the tumbling of beautiful white Christmassy snowflakes, can't be controlled. As I speak I'm currently attempting to eel my way out of this entanglement. I wonder, edging towards a candle filled table this family irresponsibly left lit, is the lubricant and disinfectant I’m constantly being doused in flammable? I hope not.
The Merry Christmas Ambulance arrived.
It was filled with the usual ambulance gear, but now with a festive slant.
Christmas songs played in place of sirens.
And bells jingled from the wing mirrors.
The medics were struggling to carry their patient (heart attack) in the tinsel hammock they'd constructed.
Free at last. That took longer than anticipated, and I hope you enjoyed the poem I just slid back into my big red and white jacket. The old sack this year is feeling a little light. We’ve run into multiple hurdles with the production lines.
Some of the elves lost the lists of children.
Santa went berserk.
Fuming about how it might be reported in tomorrow's newspapers.
I’m not so sure about the accuracy of that one. Let’s try another.
Santa fed the reindeer as he trudged through the snow.
His toes were very cold.
Rudolph chewed through his boots and every single pair of socks he owned.
Santa had a solution.
He sought the aid of elves and asked them to knock him up a new pair.
"Some insulated, steel-toe wonders."
The chief elf fiddled with a bell on his uniform and tried his best to let Santa down gently.
"The backlog's humongous this time of year" he said.
"It'll be two weeks before we have a gap in the schedule."
Santa's cheery visage turned to one of rage.
He grabbed the elf.
Launched him through the gingerbread desk partition.
"There's your ruddy gap" he shouted from behind a big bushy beard.
Again.
Santa was furious.
"You twerps are utterly useless!"
The elves were struggling to meet demands (PlayStation 5, etc.)
Several of them wept as Santa raged on.
One daubed his tears onto a child's list.
Listen. They deserve it, okay. The little bastards wander around jingling everywhere with those stupid little bells, I’ve had enough of it. They string the bloody things around my reindeer too. Absolutely unbelievable. They can't even help out inside the house this year. What's the point even having them around?
Now I’ve gone and done it haven’t I? As per, I began planting a selection of presents beneath the Christmas tree. This time, however, I went and clonked the bloody thing over. Still not used to those extra pounds, and of course, absolutely no early warnings from the elves. I really don’t have time to deal with this. I need to get them vaccinated ASAP.
John planted his Christmas tree upside down.
He went ahead with the decorations anyway.
Convinced it would look a bit less obvious with the star on top (bottom).
Right then, Santa to elves, it’s time for extraction. They’re still somewhat useful. I just tie this rope around my waist and up I go! Well, not as smooth as I’d hoped, all things considered. I appear to have snagged on the brickwork. Perhaps if I just unhook my jolly black belt and…
"They don't call me Saint Knickerless for nothing!"
A drunken Santa wobbled half naked to the music.
Mrs Claus tried to shield the elves with a baking tray.
The gingerbread men screamed.
Sleigh’s lined with a towel, Santa’s back baby! Rudolph, Blitzen, Dasher, the lot of you, away we go! As we flutter into the snow filled night sky (which, I might add, is pounding away at my face, and creating some particularly chilly formations in the leg region), I shall leave you with one final festive family gathering.
The Christmas bubble was in full effect.
Uncle Gerry wanted to try that trick with the sword and the bottle.
(For some reason he carried a sword.)
He got on with it, ran the weapon up the stem of the booze.
The bottle shattered and shards of glass hurled toward Uncle Lloyd.
Aunt Helen's head whipped clean off with the wayward blade.
Aunt Miriam observed that at least she was producing a Christmassy colour.
Things started to get a bit heated.
Uncle Lloyd shared some disagreeable opinions about certain races.
We all tried to have a good laugh about it anyway.
This is what being in the Christmas bubble was all about.
That’s your lot for poetry, I need to get back to concentrating on the deliveries, but of course it’s not all that’s been written about me. There’s loads of it from this month alone on the website, of which I have no affiliation. Go and have a look.
