'Twas twilight on Christmas, when all through the house
not an adult head sober, "thanks famous <hic> grouse!"
Mum's stockings were laddered beyond all repair,
Her hopes for a jolly day turned to despair.
The children had wrestled each other to shreds,
While driven by sugar from what they were fed.
Gran was annoyed from the afternoon's chatter,
she'd heard not a word of the Queens royal patter.
Then Aunt Mable shouts from her unclosing trap,
"What's that on the telly! The same boring crap!"
My plans for a warm family party were smashed,
So outside I ran from the chavvy white trash,
Where yellow words written in yesterday's snow
were pointing the way to our drunk Uncle Joe.
Then lo and behold but the sight of the year,
Uncle Joe staggers still holding his beer.
My shame overwhelms me, I walk away quick,
He never knows what he should do with his drink.
I'd thought this time everyone wouldn't be lame
but just like the other ones, this year's the same.
