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Matt Crawford's Christmas

Matt was not a good man -
He had his little ways.
And sometimes no one spoke to him
For days and days and days.
And men who came across him,
When walking in the street,
Gave him a supercilious stare,
Or passed with noses in the air -
And bad Crawford stood dumbly there,
Looking at his feet.

Matt was not a good man,
And no good friends had he.
He stayed in every afternoon ...
Not even Peggy came to tea.
And, round about December,
The cards upon his shelf
Which wished him lots of Christmas cheer,
And fortune for the coming year,
Were never from his near and dear,
But only from himself.

Matt was not a good man,
Yet had his hopes and fears.
They'd given him no present now
For years and years and years.
But every year at Christmas,
While Lynda stood about,
Collecting tribute from the young
For all the songs they might have sung,
He stole away upstairs and hung
A hopeful stocking out.

Matt was not a good man,
He lived his life aloof;
Alone he thought a message out
While climbing on the roof.
He wrote it down and propped it
Against the chimney stack:
"TO ALL AND SUNDRY - Red of Hat -
F. CHRISTMAS Thin, or Xmas Fat."
And signed it not "Crawfordus Cat."
But very humbly, "Mat."

"I want some Hasset Lamb,
And I want some Shires Shandy;
I think a box of Bridge Farm Leeks
Would always come in handy;
I don't mind black tights,
I do like Pig nuts!
And I SHOULD like Jethro's old chain saw
That really cuts.
And, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,
Bring me a big, red Lucky-the-Gnome so tall!"

Matt was not a good man -
He wrote this message out,
And got him to his room again,
Descending by the spout.
And all that night he lay there,
A prey to hopes and fears.
"I think that's him a-coming now,"
(Anxiety bedewed his brow.)
"He'll bring one present, anyhow -
The first I've had for years."

"Forget about the lamb,
And forget about the shandy;
I'm sure a box of Bridge Farm leeks
Would never come in handy;
I don't like black tights,
I don't want Pignuts,
And I HAVE got a chain-saw
That almost cuts.
But, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,
Bring me a big, red Lucky-the-Gnome so tall!"

Matt was not a good man -
Next morning when the sun
Rose up to tell a waiting world
That Christmas had begun,
And people seized their stockings,
And opened them with glee,
And lamb, shany and leeks appeared,
And lips with sticky cheese were smeared,
Bad Matt said grimly: "As I feared,
Nothing again for me!"

"I did want Hasset lamb,
And I did want Shires Shandy;
I know a box of Bridge Farm leeks
Would always come in handy;
I do love black tights,
I did want Pig nuts.
I haven't got a chain-saw -
Not one that really cuts.
And, oh! if Father Christmas had loved me at all,
He would have brought a big, red Lucky-the-Gnome so tall!"

Matt stood by the window,
And frowned to see below
The happy bands of boys and girls
All playing in the snow.
A while he stood there watching,
And envying them all ...
When through the window big and red
There hurtled by his royal head,
And bounced and fell upon the bed,
Lucky-the-Gnome so tall!

AND, OH, FATHER CHRISTMAS,
MY BLESSINGS ON YOU FALL
FOR BRINGING HIM
A BIG, RED, LUCKY-THE-GNOME SO TALL!

The Swineherd Whose Piglets Didn't Squeak

Of all the Swineherds in Borchester
The wisest was Sir (Archer) Tom.
He multiplied as far as four,
And knew what nine was taken from
To make eleven. He could snort
A letter to another wart.

No other swineherd in the land
Could do the things which he could do.
Not only did he understand
The way to polish arks, but knew
What remedy a pigman should seek
Whose pigs had failed, at all, to squeak.

And, if he didn't sell too much,
It wasn't that he didn't care
For tax and V A T and such,
But felt that it was hardly fair
To risk, by frequent blots and fizz,
A brain as delicate as his.

His Pig Ark (PigArk Tom) was set
Conveniently on Lakey Hill;
And daily, when it wasn't wet,
He paced the river slopes until
Some smaller pigman who couldn't swim
Should reach the Am and challenge him.

Or sometimes, feeling dandy and fine,
He hurried out to scour the plain,
And, seeing some approaching swine,
He either hurried home again,
Or hid; and, when the foe was past,
Blew a triumphant Pip-flute-blast.

One day when good Sir (Archer) Tom
Was resting in a handy ditch,
The noises he was hiding from,
Though very much the noises which
He'd always hidden from before,
Seemed somehow less....Or was it more?

The trotting mare, the Pip-flute's blast,
The whistling Booth, the piglet's squeak,
These, and especially the last,
Had clattered by him all the week.
Was this the same, or was it not?
Something was different. But what?

Sir (Archer) raised a cautious ear
And listened as Jazzer went by,
And suddenly he seemed to hear
(Or not to hear) the reason why
This person made a nicer sound
Than other swineherd living round.

Sir (Archer) watched the way he went -
His rage was such he couldn't speak,
For years they'd called him down The Bull
"The One Whose Piglets Didn't Squeak!"
Yet here and now he looked upon
Another swineherd, squeaking gone!

He rushed to where his car was tied;
He spurred it to a rapid trot.
The only fear he felt inside
About his enemy was not,
"How big his burgers? chilled his cart?"
But "Has he got too long a start?"

Dear Jazz was singing, hand on hip,
When something sudden came along,
And caught him a terrific blip
Right in the middle of his song.
"A thunderstorm!" he thought. "Of course!"
And toppled gently off his horse.

Then said the good Sir (Archer) Tom,
Dismounting with a friendly air,
"Allow me to extract you from
The heavy hoodie that you wear.
At times like these the brave swineherd
May find his hoodie looks absurd."

A hundred yards or so beyond
The scene of poor Jazzer's defeat
Sir (Archer) found a useful pond,
And, careful not to wet his feet,
He brought the hoodie to the brink,
And flung it in...and watched it sink.

So ever after, more and more,
The men of Borsetshire would speak
Of Thomas Tom of Ambridgeville,
"The One Whose Piglets Didn't Squeak."
Whilst Jazz, the swineherd, dressed in vest,
Has pigs that squeak, like all the rest.

Trespass

Little babe kneels at the foot of the bed,
Droops on the little hands little gold head.
Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!
George Edward Grundy is saying his prayers.

First bless Mummy. I know that's right.
Wasn't it fun in the sink to-night?
The cold's so cold, and the hot's so hot.
Oh! bless whoever's Daddy - I quite forgot.

If I open my fingers a little bit more,
I see Nanny-Sue's dressing-gown spread on the floor.
It's a beautiful blue, but it hasn't a hood.
Oh! bless Nanny and try to make her good.

Mine has a hood, and I lie in my cot,
And pull the listeners into the plot,
And I shut my eyes, and I curl up small,
And try to learn to do something 'cept bawl.

Oh! Thank you, all, for a lovely day.
And what was the other I had to say?
I said "Bless Daddy," so what can it be?
Oh! Now I remember it. Bless Ed Daddy.

Little chap kneels at the foot of the bed,
Droops on the little hands little gold head.
Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!
George Edward Grundy is saying his prayers.

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More parodies - from Agatha Christie to Damon Runyon



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