Satirical verse: Christmas 2019

Copyright © Anna Nolan, 2019


Christmas is approaching, so

Our mode is go, go, go!

We must buy a lot of stuff

To ensure we have enough


Of the lovely festive fare

That imbues our feast with flair.

First, we have to make a list

To make sure that nothing’s missed.


Nothing must be left to chance,

So we’re in a Yuletide trance

Mobilising our grey matter:

Number one is shellfish platter,


Then comes lobster (must be dressed) –

Thermidor’s by far the best –

We will serve it with cheese crust

(Adding brandy is a must).


Crab and avocado spheres

Always raise the wildest cheers,

And we will, without a fluster,

Purchase salmon with gold lustre;


As for tasty Christmas snacks,

You can’t beat ricotta stacks,

Chocolate bark, pork sausage rolls,

Christmas crack and brandy balls.


Now come mains: we’ll get the bird –

Fifty-pounder is preferred;

If we source a smaller one,

We will still not be outdone


‘Cos we’ll also buy a goose

(Serving it with pumpkin mousse);

Better still: a three-bird roast

Will upstage (yay!) every host,


Which is why we’ll source a duck,

Common Pochard (with some luck);

We might also get a grouse:

There’s no scrimping in our house!


Then there’s meats: a wild boar joint

Always, always makes a point,

Venison does go down well

With our type of clientele,


So does veal and British beef

(Roast the latter with bay leaf);

For our Fred, it’s Herdwick lamb;

We must also get some ham.


So as not to face rebuffing,

We’ll make sage & onion stuffing

And avoid a frightful tarnish

Having twenty types of garnish.


Now come sweets: our Christmas pud

Always puts us in the mood,

So does panna cotta jelly

(It was even on the telly).


Our festive stollen slices

Will be filled with various spices,

While our passion fruit dessert

Won’t have equals, we assert.


As for Christmas Rainbow Cake,

It’s not all that hard to make,

Nor are port-and-rum mice pies:

Baking ninety would be wise.


One would have to be a nutter

Not to relish brandy butter:

Extra-thick, it’s always yummy,

Satisfying every tummy,


Whereas brandy pouring cream

Is a treat that is supreme;

Twenty pints might just suffice:

To run out would not be nice.


It is more than just a hunch:

We’ll require Christmas punch,

Eggnog, sangria, party fizz

(They help oil our Christmas quiz);


Krug champagne is always cool:

We must source it for this Yule,

Also gin, port, rum and whisky

(Though they make our Fred quite frisky).


It is hoped that, come what may,

This will last till Boxing Day.

What is more, we’ve had a ball

With a treat to top them all,


Which did whet our appetite.

What was it? A plebiscite!

Yes, we’ve had, dear girls and boys,

An election – joy of joys!



Humorous verse: Our Christmas

‘Tis a magic time of year,

Time of gladness, joy and cheer,

When folk love to have a fete,

Eat and drink and celebrate.


In our house, we too, as one,

Had a most tremendous fun,

Though there was, I do declare,

The odd hiccup here and there,


Such as all the rigmarole

With the toad in his wee hole*;

Turkey? Raw inside (oh, drat!),

So we gave it to the cat;


Roast potatoes, I must say,

Went a rather different way:

Badly burnt and hard as rock

(Not that we would ever squawk);


Veggies having turned to slime,

Guests jumped up: “Is this the time!?!”

“Nonsense!” we’d then gaily shout,

“Won’t you have another sprout?”


Christmas pud would have been handy,

But we’d guzzled all the brandy**;

As for pies – this makes me wince –

Uncle’d eaten all the mince.


Radio playing Silent Night,

Both grandfathers had a fight,

Kids got into awful scraps

Tearing off their present wraps,


And our dearest auntie Lyn

Sat there swigging rum and gin

With a rather mournful gaze:

“It was different in them days”;


Our granny, though, was merry,

Having finished all the sherry,

Then she swayed and, with a slouch,

Was now snoring on the couch.


All in all, as you can guess,

Christmas was a great success,

Though the fairy on the top

Shut her eyes and shouted “Stop!”


But the day, this much is clear,

Is the highlight of our year,

So we cry, with joyous glow,

“Only fifty*** weeks to go!”


*How the lovely natives manage to squeeze the animal into a small hole is beyond me: my repeated attempts ended in abject failure, though, mercifully, the creature survived …

**Way back in July, when we started our Christmas preparations in earnest

***Well, maybe fifty two, but who is counting after all this prosecco – pardon me, champagne