Poem: Nine in the Morning Mental ramble on a Christmas theme
It’s nine in the morning, I’m stretching and yawning.
I’m signing myself in for the day.
The office is empty, the desk piled with plenty,
Of work in which I have no say.
Coffee inside me, my inbox untidy;
another few hours to get through.
I’d best get to work then, no fag-break till half ten.
No eating till quarter to two.
I can't wait till Christmas, I doubt that I'll miss this.
I'm not a hard worker at heart.
Thinking of roast goose and trouser belts let loose,
Of baked sprouts and accompanying farts.
Of presents and trees, a seasonal sneeze,
a tree that's too big and sheds needles.
Mulled wine and church bells, snow, ice and rich smells,
and rum soaked pudd's, white sauce and treacle.
This year I'm asking St. Nick for compassion,
some warmth for the cold, for the lonely some passion.
Homes for the homeless and food for the poor,
blankets for those seen curled up by the door.
Parents for those kids who've lost them, and hope
hope for the many who are struggling to cope.
Give them a chance, St. Nick if you could.
If I had the power, I know that I would.
It's time for us all to improve the lot,
the luck and the fortune of those who aint got,
the luck and the fortune we blessed ones enjoy,
and spread some wealth, confidence, joy.