Saturday, December 16, 2006


A Christmas tale

Timmy was a star pupil,
A beacon at his school;
He’d outperform each boy and girl
And never play the fool.

His sums were always quite correct,
His drawings made one gasp.
There was but one minor subject
Which Timmy failed to grasp –

At maths and science he’d excel,
But sadly, clever Tim
For the life of him could not spell!
It truly flummoxed him.

There, their or they’re? he’d ask himself,
Sine, sign? Mane, main or mean?
He’d pore o’er heath, hearth, heart and health
While pikking his nose kleen.

‘Who cares?’ he’d laugh. ‘Spelling is gay.
It means nothing to me.’
His dumbed-down teachers, sad to say,
Could do naught but agree.

When Yuletide drew near, Timothy
To Father Christmas wrote:
‘I wont a Soany PSP,
A mobyl fone, a bote,

A kar, a plain, a spais roket,
A laptopp with brawdband.’
He sealed the letter and stamped it,
And sent it to Lapland.

On Christmas Eve he couldn’t sleep.
He lay in bed, listening
For noise of Santa’s stealthy creep
Down chimney, gifts bearing.

At midnight he sat up in bed
Straining hard with his ears;
And through the darkness came the tread
Of heavy foot on stairs.

The door swung wide and Timmy screamed,
Seized with unholy fear;
The foulest nightmare ever dreamed
Was standing laughing there:

Red Santa clothes it wore, and beard,
All matted, grey and rank;
From its fanged maw small serpents reared;
Of charnel house it stank.

Its face, blasted, blemished, pockmarked,
Encrusted with green pus,
Held eyes dull yellow in the dark.
It commenced speaking, thus:

‘Don’t look so shocked, my wee laddie!’
(Advancing without pause.)
‘I’m here because you wrote to me –
My name is Santa Claws.’

That was Timmy’s last Christmas; so,
Take care and learn to spell;
Or, boys and girls, next ‘Ho, ho, ho,’
Might be your last as well!

Haven't we spoken about this kind of thing. Didn't you promise to put up a disclaimer? What the hell are you trying to do Footie, KILL me?
You half many childhood issues that need to be addressed I fear, at least they all rhyme.
My terrified daughter leapt, really leapt, off the stage into her astonished teacher's arms yesterday when the very special visitor turned up unexpectedly at their pre-school concert. Bystanders reported that she kept saying "It's wrong, it's wrong!"

It was the same thing with the Easter bunny. In fact, it's only the pagan holidays of Halloween and Thanksgiving that don't fill her with fear. At 4 she has a very real appreciation of the fact that menace can lurk behind a jolly smile and a furry face.

Which reminds me, must wash that spilled red ink off her teddy bear's snout...
Oh dear. Rhyming poetry about bad spelling and its consequences. I'm freaked out. Why couldn't you just do something with Art Deco and bees?

My dad was always such bastard like that. I never quite worked out where he managed to get the serpents from.
You are a one mister eater you are a one and no mistake.
A versificating Foot Eater
And swindling icthyo-beater
Cannot get the hang of the metre.
That would only scan if swindling had three syllables, which it doesn't.
I mean 'that would scan only if...'
Well, deliberate mistake and all, it's still a good deal more elegant than:

Its face, blasted, blemished, pockmarked ... Held eyes dull yellow in the dark

which might scan if some of it were loosely translated into gutter Albanian, which it isn't.
You're back then - your blog seemed disappeared for a wee while. Wondered whether you'd had to make a fast exit.
Philip: the problem is you're too sober when you read my posts.

Kim: are you saying you couldn't access my blog? Haven't noticed any problems this end. If you meant I was away for a while... well, see my latest post.
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