Mr and Mrs were in love
It had been so for years
Still every time he came home drunk
He reduced his love to tears

The rule of a love triangle
Is somebody must lose
This household was no different
Mr , Mrs or the *****

The young boy looked puzzled
Sat slumped in the car
A day trip to Grandma's
Roadsign : Not far

To his curious child's question
No answer replied
This proud, Grey Englishman
Watched chevrons, sighed

You are a poet lacking poetry
A composer who never penned a symphony
A clown plagued by misery
A broadcast not shown on T.V

A duck pond missing mallard mates
A panda without panda traits
A perfectionist who makes mistakes
A pacifist who fights and hates
_

The word springs from my mouth
Lips part just like blades
Tongue bounces north then south

Scissors was the first word
My infantile-self uttered
Since that day, my vocab
Has grown increasingly cluttered

Using my favoured blades
I resign to cut a few
But Scissors, sacred Scissors
I shall never sever you

When something snaps
The ****** all bolt
Dogs out the traps
We all collapse
Down the plughole
Like turned on taps
Jaded expats
Bourbon, poker
All throw craps
Black top hats
Line the road
Like mourning bats
Marital spats
Crystal prisms
Where love refracts
Wear navy slacks
Stare out to sea
As mars attacks
Nightmares hide facts
Flattened like focaccia
Under fifteen all-blacks
Fuss over Goldman sachs
You know we only blink
When it's the shirt on our backs

I, dressed in the shade of an overdue bill
Sat with my sack and a hat with white frill
Awe on small faces as they all filed in
Fake white hair on my lip above a beaming grin

William was his name, thin and pale
With eyes so wide from watching bread turn stale
As I called out his name and pulled out a box
He shook and came forward, black shoes, white socks

Merry Christmas, I boomed , I hear you’ve been a good boy
Inside this box hides a fantastic toy
He took the gift from me, staring in awe
He leant in to my ear, on tiptoe, heels leaving the floor

‘I love you Santa’ he whispered