The ding dong’s over, I’ve had crumpets and I feel in clover.
This week I did the things I had to do leaving not much to chew.
The sun is shining but it’s cold outside, I have a healthy sense of pride,
not overweening sin, I hope, that might be censured by the Pope,
but pleasure in accomplishment, accompanied by merriment.
I’m going to take it easy now and later cook some sausages for chow.
Bangers and mash for Sunday supper, surely that’s the supreme upper?!
Been sleeping in my filth for days,
a shower too shaky to assay.
Yet hard to quantify the form
my malady has taken, sleep of course,
but also, lassitude and great remorse.
The central conundrum of my life
has left me leaning on the ginger wine
and the port, I even bought some stilton,
along with mince pies, it’s that time of year,
the one that elves and reindeer fear.
I sure don’t want to be the Christmas Grinch
so, I’ll rise from my disgusting bed
and wash from head to toe instead
in jaundiced preparation for the joys ahead.