‘Twas the night before Christmas and, Upon our abode, Festive lights were agleaming, Upon Marsworth Road. The stockings were hung, By the chimney with thought, And up on the mantle, A small glass of port… And a mince pie for Santa, And carrots and fruits, For his faithful reindeer, Such elegant brutes. And down in the kitchen, The dog in his bed, Gave a deep sigh, And lowered his head. While I in my Jim jams, And him in the buff, Passed out for the night, After more than enough. Then outside the window, Arose a loud THUD, As something, who knew what? Made contact with mud. My heavy eyes opened, My heart gave a patter, I crawled to the curtain, To see what was the matter. From up on the first floor, The lawn looked absurd, With yellowing patches and, A sprinkling of turd. And right in it’s middle, A road kill, a tangle, Of reindeer and Santa, All at the wrong angle. And Santa was wiping, His boot with a list As he glared at the window, And shook a small fist. One reindeer, his nose red, Was struggling to rise, And gifts of all sizes, Rained down from the skies. Eventually, upright, The gallant old team, Made it up to the roof, where, They could not be seen. But I heard them arrive, And I heard Santa shout, From the fireplace, Something about port causing gout. Then back up the chimney and, Into the mist, The sleigh lurched and twisted, Perhaps he was pissed.