The Weekly Muse

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The Independent Culture
In low-slung shards of reddish light

On sodden saltings, brimming dikes,

A mild December morning sprawls

And lounges in the dripping trees

While in the eastern estuaries

The whooper swans fly whirring down.

It's time for Christmas shopping now...

You sure you want to go to town?

It's mad out there, they maim and kill

To have their peace and spread goodwill.

They think that it's compulsory:

It's not. Don't go. Stay here with me.

While Safeway, Tesco and the rest,

The centres of this shopping fest,

Watch vehicles come in and out

Via traffic jams and roundabout,

In market towns which used to thrive

The men with nails and boards arrive,

Assembling where the High Street stood

Pale galleries of chip-flecked wood.

The latest news alleges that

The young are lazy and they're fat,

They drink too much and smoke as well -

Oh yes, they're ugly and they smell.

Well no, those last two bits were lies.

I'm sorry. I apologise.

Their habits at this early stage

May cause ill-health in middle age,

A matter which we should discuss,

Lest they're too ill to care for us.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot?

I'd hazard a quick guess.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot?

If your name's Bill Clinton, yes.

"Sex Appeal - it's Down to Smell":

I have a cold and I can't tell.

So women trick us constantly

By blocking our ability

To judge the way that they appear?

A pretty face, a well-turned rear,

And all the main attraction zones

Run second to their pheromones.

So if she's not the fairest lamp

That lit a bell-tent in your camp,

It's only logic to suppose

She must have led you by the nose.

Come closer. Pour yourself a port.

That cocktail dress, the one I bought,

Do try it on. Go on - feel free.

It never really suited me.

The year is knackered - I am too.

Cool Yule from Newell to all of you.

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