Bumshus
Bumshus scrumshus minci pies, bonging bells yuletide cries, clonking hooves snowy skies, old st nick on a timed slay ride.O' ye, O' ye Mr turkey is literally on a knife edge, to much mulled wine forgot to put on the veg, ice sickles ching in tune with singing Bing knockity knock on the door wooly hats snd scarves for sixpence sing.
Green and red stockings called archi and pat hung over the fireplace and by burning ashes spat at, both plump with presents for spoiled little brats sat eating chocolate while wiping there sticky fingers on ginger the passing cat..
Crepe decorations dingle dangle too low, the postman trudging past the bay window in the snow,hissing and cursing the day christmas cards became vogue.
Fedup snowmen always complaining there alone, grandma to drunk to speak to grandad on the phone, the red nosed vicar one more for the alter prone, his parishioners parishing in the bitter winter cold lead off the church roof rolled and sold.
But hey! its the season for the hated sprout, chewed and chewed then seasonally spat out, pigs in bankets the golden roasted spud covered in goose fat, O then a flaming christmas pud.
God bless christmas for young and old, the working the shurking the warm and the cold, but even if you feel bad after all the hymns, carols and dinner you can start to feel good thinking of the new year when your waistline will become thinner. But remember the next morning amid the hangover after the booze nothing is worse than being in Mr Turkey's oven shoes.Flickity flinn.
