Two years ago, while Barack Obama was still President of the United States, I wrote a short piece in what could loosely be called ‘poetic’ style, as part of my Christmas message to the people of the Earth (hold on, my coronet’s slipping – ah, that’s better). I believe Her Majesty was ill-disposed that year.
The ‘message’ still holds good this Christmas, with a few slight modifications, so with apologies (yet again) to Clement Clarke Moore I present once more my ‘slightly adapted’ version of Moore’s famous ditty.
Assuming we all survive until 2019, may I wish all Sparrow Chat readers a truly wondrous Christmas, and a prosperous, if environmentally-friendly, New Year.
Terrorists are plotting for all they are worth.
The Donald sits musing, which country to strike?
China? Korea? Maybe both could be right?
His hand on the button, surely now is the time,
He thinks, “My life’s truly awful, it’s not worth a dime.
Who thought being Pressy could cause me such strain,
And Melania’s in bed with the butler – again!”
The Arctic is melting, the earth’s growing warm,
Droughts, floods, tornadoes, becoming the norm.
“Don’t blame us,” says the Donald. “It’s not me!” he cried
As New York washed away on a rather high tide.
Donald knows Mueller’s watching, and scheming to get him,
A Pressy in prison would not be a good thing.
He’ll blow up the world, end it all with a bang,
They’ll remember him then, or they all could go hang.
John Bolton had shown him the right way to do it,
But he’s off to bed with the wife of Scott Pruitt.
Donald grabs hold the briefcase with codes and iPad
He’ll nuke them all up, there’ll be no more jihad.
But high in the Heavens Mohammed and Jesus,
Mithras, Athena, and Zeus with his aegis,
Look down on a world they had brought into being
And cannot believe what the hell they are seeing.
They’ll not let a mortal destroy their creation,
They’ll do it themselves and to Hell with salvation,
Donald thinks he’s a god, but he’s sadly mistaken,
A god with such hair! And a mouth so mis-shapen?
They speak not a word, but go straight to their toil,
Call forth the angels, their Godblood a-boil,
Blasting the earth with hot fire from their noses,
They consume it all up – despite firemen’s hoses.
Then summoning chariots of fire with a whistle,
They fly off to heaven like the down of a thistle.
Only one of them speaks, the one they call Mithras
Mutters, “Bloody little shits! They just didn’t deserve Christmas.”