I Wouldn't Really Mind Christmas…

Fred's Song
I wouldn't really mind Christmas, if didn't have to kiss my Aunty June,
And have to watch her pucker up like a crater on the moon,
And I'm not really mad on her beery breath, or that wart right there on her chin,
Or her neatly powdered little moustache, although she is my kin.
And right up close, well, she's not too fresh, though she really is a dear,
But I think that her cardi hasn't been washed since she was round last year.
So I close my eyes and purse my lips, oh dear, the old girl does reek,
As she plants a messy lipstick stain right there on my quivering cheek.
And I make me a vow by the moon and stars, and the frosty Xmas light,
That when I'm old and past my best and, frankly, quite a fright,
That I'll keep my kisses to myself and live in veneration,
And refrain each year from Christmas snogs, with the younger generation.

June's Song
I wouldn't really mind Christmas if I didn't  have to kiss my nephew, Fred,
With his aftershave and eau de cologne and that gel all over his head.
And his natty shoes and his reindeer top and his lighting up bow tie,
And that smarmy face and disdainful lips that are way too much for I.
So I make me a vow that Christmas night, that for Christmases to come,
That I'll always deliver a sloppy kiss, to that supercilious bum.

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