Daily Mail Santa

I went to buy a pint of ale, in a pub that was not local,
It was a dark and gloomy place, it surely wasn't vocal,
And a man sat at the counter, his face was sad and glum,
I said, pray, have a drink with me, he answered, thank you, chum.

I said, you look a trifle sad, he answered, yes, that's true,
And he tugged his beard and bright red suit, and said, I'll tell to you,
My winter tale of sad despair, they're sending me to work,
Though I've been idle all year long, and I'd really like to shirk.

But those old Mail men, they say I'm bad, they've condemned me to forced labour,
And I'm being packed off on workfare stuff, they say it is a favour.
And so I'm off on Christmas night to deliver bloody toys,
And slide down ruddy chimney pots to reach small girls and boys,

And though I'd like to stay at home and lie upon my lounger,
I'm going to work on Christmas Eve or else they'll call me scrounger.

Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved