Every bush and tree round here
Looks like it's lit by magic
(Presumably some Elvish power).
It's glorious (or tragic
Depending on your point of view) -
There's red and white and mostly blue
And every darkening hour
They turn the streets a queer
Mix of shades. It's quite unclear
If this improves the celebration
Or reinforces, like the cars, the skis,
The patios, the decoration
Of the trees inside, and all we do,
The outdoing of each other. B & Q?
It's a jungle. We crowd, mewling, like celebrities,
Get me out of here.
Without Mince Pies
Let's do without mince pies this year.
I wonder if the skies, this year
Will fall, if we should try this year
To do without mince pies?
It will be thought a crime, I'm sure,
But mince pies all the time? I'm sure
Although they are sublime, I'm sure
We'd cope without mince pies.