On the first day of Christmas,
My true love said to me:
“I’ve bought a a big fresh turkey
and proper Christmas tree”
On the second day of Christmas,
much laughter could be head
As we tucked into our turkey
– a most delicious bird.
On the third day of Christmas
came the people from next door,
The turkey tasted just as good
as it had done before.
On the fourth day of Christmas
came relations, young and old
We finished up up the Christmas pud
and had the turkey cold.
On the fifth day of Christmas,
outside the the snowflakes scurried
But we were nice and warm inside
– we had the turkey curried.
On the sixth day of Christmas,
the Christmas spirit died
The children fought and bickered
- we had the turkey rissoles fried.
On the seventh day of Christmas,
my true love he did wince
When we we sat down at the table
and was offered turkey mince.
On the eight day of Christmas,
the dog had run for shelter
He’d seen our turkey pancakes
and the glass of Alka Selzter.
On the ninth day of Christnas,
by lunchtime Dad was blotto
He the bird was back again,
this time as a risotto.
On the tenth day of Christmas,
we were drinking home-made brew
And if that wasn’t bad enough,
We were eating turkey stew.
On the Eleventh day of Christmas,
the Christmas tree was moulting
With chilli, soy and oyster sauce,
the turkey was revolting.
On the twelth day of Christmas,
We had smiles upon our lips
The gueststs had gone, the turkey too-
We dined on fish and chips.
From a book of poems by John Ware, who died in 2002, aged 79
My true love said to me:
“I’ve bought a a big fresh turkey
and proper Christmas tree”
On the second day of Christmas,
much laughter could be head
As we tucked into our turkey
– a most delicious bird.
On the third day of Christmas
came the people from next door,
The turkey tasted just as good
as it had done before.
On the fourth day of Christmas
came relations, young and old
We finished up up the Christmas pud
and had the turkey cold.
On the fifth day of Christmas,
outside the the snowflakes scurried
But we were nice and warm inside
– we had the turkey curried.
On the sixth day of Christmas,
the Christmas spirit died
The children fought and bickered
- we had the turkey rissoles fried.
On the seventh day of Christmas,
my true love he did wince
When we we sat down at the table
and was offered turkey mince.
On the eight day of Christmas,
the dog had run for shelter
He’d seen our turkey pancakes
and the glass of Alka Selzter.
On the ninth day of Christnas,
by lunchtime Dad was blotto
He the bird was back again,
this time as a risotto.
On the tenth day of Christmas,
we were drinking home-made brew
And if that wasn’t bad enough,
We were eating turkey stew.
On the Eleventh day of Christmas,
the Christmas tree was moulting
With chilli, soy and oyster sauce,
the turkey was revolting.
On the twelth day of Christmas,
We had smiles upon our lips
The gueststs had gone, the turkey too-
We dined on fish and chips.
From a book of poems by John Ware, who died in 2002, aged 79
