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Poem

Christ’s high rank, squarely behind it
In man’s life, The Brightest Candle Lit,
Though Bank Robbers celebrate their heist,
Nothing wanting from Carpenter Christ.

Also, our marking of our birthdays
And anticipation of Better Days,
Straight from Yesterday’s Frays,
That had knocked out hopes and rays.

With carols The Yuletide is expressed:
Tunes ensuring that one is not depressed,
Braved baritones their compulsory spice,
A lighting of candles spiritually nice.

Often unfolding in undisturbed rooms,
That shouldn’t Day – Old Christ wake up,
To be seized The Deafening Booms,
Edging nearer where we sup.

By a white-bearded dominated,
Lazy but always nominated,
And by gift-eyeing children surrounded,
As though indulging their kind just grounded:
Father Christmas The Event keeps pocketing,
Even as different wishes keep picketing. 

A time whisky and rum are challenged,
By both The Sane and The Deranged,
Sometimes conquering the two without a homily,
At other times to them losing with ignominy:
A period commercial driver’s wrestle with steering,
Their trips quadrupling, at times wearying,
Unfailingly hating themselves for less success,
Always a preoccupation with excesses.

Ponder I do why Christmas Season,
Is a time Man doesn’t reason,
A lot drinking and the picture is poison,
Lotions grabbing for unusual skin moistening.

Burglaries that lead all the way to prison,
Exchange of blows that cheeks turn Crimson:
The Feeble vie with The Stout to replace Samson,
Though “An infant king is Born” steadily noising.

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