Homework week ending 12/12/11 - Chocolate Christmas
Posted: Thu Dec 01, 2011 3:20 pm
I didn't write anything new as I've been preparing for Young Cherry Festival this Saturday, but since we are doing Christmas, I'd be happy to get feedback on this one, which I wrote last year for our Carols by Torchlight...
Chocolate Christmas
On Christmas Eve the setting sun threw joyous shades of pink
across the hills, like noses smeared with iridescent zinc.
Expectantly the pillow cases waited for the loot
that Santa would distribute in his oversized red suit.
Now Timmy’s plan was simple, he would lie awake all night,
and softly say to Santa when he wobbled into sight:
"Forget about the scooter, the computer games and all,
forget about the cricket bat, the stumps and leather ball.
Forget about the Scrabble or some tinny model cars;
I’d love a heap of chocolate, some Caramello bars.
‘Cause Mummy’s a fanatic, won’t let Kit-Kat pass my lips;
no lemonade, no Christmas cake, no lollies and no chips.
She reckons ice-cream plonks a fatty layer on your rump,
but rabbit food like beans will leave me skinny as a stump.”
Tim’s father smelt of liquor, with his cheeks and eyeballs red,
said "Set up Santa’s feast, you kids, then scarper off to bed".
Mum thought some lentil patties would fill Santa's heart with joy,
but "Strike a blooming light,” said Dad. “Now here’s a better ploy."
With Christmas cake and lollies and some chocolates like sin,
a carrot for the reindeer and a tumbler, full of gin,
they set their feast for Santa Claus beneath their Christmas tree.
Tim cried into his pillow, “Lucky Santa, how ‘bout me.”
“A bad example for the kids,” Mum hissed behind her hand.
“I hope our little darlings are too young to understand.
And Dad, you need to moderate your alcoholic haze.”
Dad's eyes were flashing on and off, like Christmas lights, for days.
An idea hit, like popping corn, he snatched up Santa's drink,
and down the hatch it vanished, as Mum’s face turned angry pink.
"I'm just protecting Santa, 'cause I want him safe on high;
‘Don’t drink before you drive’ applies to sleighs up in the sky."
Mum stamped her feet like reindeer as she stomped away to bed,
she grabbed their Christmas carrot, thinking food would clear her head.
She bustled round the bedroom, banging bags and making noise;
her toothbrush was so busy it was buzzing like new toys.
Dad toddled to the bedroom and he soon began to snore,
waves crashing like the ocean, you could hear the mighty roar.
But little Timmy slept until the wispy shawl of dawn
draped pink around the shoulders of the hills, then with a yawn
he understood that Santa would be up and on his way;
instead of Caramello, there’d be beans again all day.
Then Tim set off on tiptoe, gently creeping to the tree,
when “Santa’s read my mind: he’s left his feast laid out for me."
He gobbled up the chocolates and ate the Christmas cake;
stuffed sweets into each pocket, just in case his Mum should wake.
A tummy full of rubbish made him happy as dog
who'd rolled in something awful, like an aromatic bog.
His pillow case revealed its treasures, cricket bat and stumps,
computer games and scooter, his hair rose in prickly bumps
to think he'd got the chocolates as well as all this loot.
He ran around the lounge room, gave a loud excited hoot.
Then Mum appeared with crumpled hair, a frown stretched cheek to cheek,
"And who ate all those chocolates?" Tim’s knees went slowly weak.
"I'm pretty sure that Santa did, or took them to his sleigh,
Perhaps he thought his reindeer would enjoy them when they play."
Mum struggled for a moment, and then softened with a smile;
with arm around Tim’s shoulder said “That Santa’s got some style”.
© Robyn Sykes
Chocolate Christmas
On Christmas Eve the setting sun threw joyous shades of pink
across the hills, like noses smeared with iridescent zinc.
Expectantly the pillow cases waited for the loot
that Santa would distribute in his oversized red suit.
Now Timmy’s plan was simple, he would lie awake all night,
and softly say to Santa when he wobbled into sight:
"Forget about the scooter, the computer games and all,
forget about the cricket bat, the stumps and leather ball.
Forget about the Scrabble or some tinny model cars;
I’d love a heap of chocolate, some Caramello bars.
‘Cause Mummy’s a fanatic, won’t let Kit-Kat pass my lips;
no lemonade, no Christmas cake, no lollies and no chips.
She reckons ice-cream plonks a fatty layer on your rump,
but rabbit food like beans will leave me skinny as a stump.”
Tim’s father smelt of liquor, with his cheeks and eyeballs red,
said "Set up Santa’s feast, you kids, then scarper off to bed".
Mum thought some lentil patties would fill Santa's heart with joy,
but "Strike a blooming light,” said Dad. “Now here’s a better ploy."
With Christmas cake and lollies and some chocolates like sin,
a carrot for the reindeer and a tumbler, full of gin,
they set their feast for Santa Claus beneath their Christmas tree.
Tim cried into his pillow, “Lucky Santa, how ‘bout me.”
“A bad example for the kids,” Mum hissed behind her hand.
“I hope our little darlings are too young to understand.
And Dad, you need to moderate your alcoholic haze.”
Dad's eyes were flashing on and off, like Christmas lights, for days.
An idea hit, like popping corn, he snatched up Santa's drink,
and down the hatch it vanished, as Mum’s face turned angry pink.
"I'm just protecting Santa, 'cause I want him safe on high;
‘Don’t drink before you drive’ applies to sleighs up in the sky."
Mum stamped her feet like reindeer as she stomped away to bed,
she grabbed their Christmas carrot, thinking food would clear her head.
She bustled round the bedroom, banging bags and making noise;
her toothbrush was so busy it was buzzing like new toys.
Dad toddled to the bedroom and he soon began to snore,
waves crashing like the ocean, you could hear the mighty roar.
But little Timmy slept until the wispy shawl of dawn
draped pink around the shoulders of the hills, then with a yawn
he understood that Santa would be up and on his way;
instead of Caramello, there’d be beans again all day.
Then Tim set off on tiptoe, gently creeping to the tree,
when “Santa’s read my mind: he’s left his feast laid out for me."
He gobbled up the chocolates and ate the Christmas cake;
stuffed sweets into each pocket, just in case his Mum should wake.
A tummy full of rubbish made him happy as dog
who'd rolled in something awful, like an aromatic bog.
His pillow case revealed its treasures, cricket bat and stumps,
computer games and scooter, his hair rose in prickly bumps
to think he'd got the chocolates as well as all this loot.
He ran around the lounge room, gave a loud excited hoot.
Then Mum appeared with crumpled hair, a frown stretched cheek to cheek,
"And who ate all those chocolates?" Tim’s knees went slowly weak.
"I'm pretty sure that Santa did, or took them to his sleigh,
Perhaps he thought his reindeer would enjoy them when they play."
Mum struggled for a moment, and then softened with a smile;
with arm around Tim’s shoulder said “That Santa’s got some style”.
© Robyn Sykes
