Choose a previous weeks' poem from the index on the left.
The End Of Meaning, and The Ass's View
The End Of Meaning
Outrage in the holy aisle
At utter blasphemy,
That someone plans a shop bonanza
Early. Not for me!
Good God! Is nothing sacrosanct?
Tradition to be flouted?
Does no-one glean what Christmas means,
What’s holy? Well, I doubt it.
Let all fall down upon their knees,
And for forgiveness pray:
We’re off the rails. The massive sales
Belong to Boxing Day.
The Ass’s View
Isaiah said I knew my master’s crib:
Right in one – it’s where I get my scoff.
I told the ox, come here, look in this box –
A blanket, see it? There’s a rabbit off.
And as I spoke, there came some holy muzak,
A shaft of light, the sound of something mewling.
We gave a frown and tugged the blanket down
(It was a time of night for some refuelling).
A Nazarene was in (this is ‘the annexe’
The publican sends any guests ‘on spec’) –
He came for us. Our manger was in danger:
I brayed; he held the both of us in check,
And in our straw, he placed a tiny infant:
Gaunt and greasy, couldn’t have been smaller.
Though crabby, I am fond of new-born babbies –
I said to Ox, ‘I wonder what they’ll call her.’