The Goose of Christmas Present

Christmas is coming,
I hope the goose ain’t nervous,
‘Cos if it’s thin from worryin’
There ain’t enough to serve us.

Christmas is coming
The goose is getting fat
It’s found out why they’re feeding it.
It isn’t keen on that.

Christmas is coming
The goose is getting edgy
It’s harbouring a desperate hope
That people will turn Veggie

Christmas is coming
The goose ain’t feeling perky
It hopes that in the next few weeks
There’ll be a swing to turkey

Christmas is coming,
The Goose is really fed up.
It’s ducking down inside the flock,
Too scared to stick its head up.

Christmas is coming
The goose is on a diet
It thinks that if it loses weight
The butcher just won’t buy it.

Christmas is coming
The Goose is getting thin
But still it doesn’t think it can
escape the roasting tin.

Christmas is coming
The Goose has got a gun
It’s waiting for the butcher
And there’s going to be some fun

Christmas is coming
But there’ll be no goosey portion.
The bird just pleaded self-defence
And got off with a caution


Rags to Riches

Round and round the rugged rocks
The Ragged Rascal ran.
Unfeeling folks would just ignore
The poor demented man,
Until, one day, “Are you alright?”
A helpful hiker said.
“Do you require assistance?
Are you crazy in the head?
You must be mad to clothe yourself
In garb that is so holey”.
The rascal gave him such a look
It seared his very soul, he…
Cried “my garb is holy, sir,
Because I am a monk,
But I didn’t like the praying
So I went and did a bunk.
My name is Ragged Richard,
And I’m sometimes known as Dick,
But please don’t let my tatty togs
Suggest that I am sick.
I need no cash, my riches lie
Up here amongst these crags.
These mighty stones are all I need
In place of money bags.
So if you see my dear old Ma,
Who worries, would you tell her,
That though I haven’t got a cent
I am Richard Rocky fella”.


Bispam Tragacanth

His name is Bispam Tragacanth
He strides around the Stray.
The War made him a hero,
Then it took his wits away

His toecaps shine like mirrors
And his buttons are brass-bright
As ramrod-straight he marches round
Defending chosen bits of ground
Responding to the bugle sound
That calls him to the fight.

For he has seen the sabre flash,
Has heard the cannon’s roar
Has seen his comrades tumbled
With their horses in the gore.

He’s seen the colours drooping
As the standard-bearer fell,
And spurring on his trusty steed
He undertook his valiant deed,
Retrieved the colours with no heed
To sabre, shot and shell

And now he sits upon the Stray
And dreams of glory days.
He doesn’t know that he’s grown old,
Befuddled, in a haze.

And though the louts may mock him,
Or simply pass him by,
Not one dares look into his eyes
Where fighting spirit never dies
And Sergeant Tragacanth still cries
“Come on Lads ….Do or Die!”