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The End Of Meaning, and The Ass's View

The End Of Meaning

Outrage in the holy aisle
At utter blasphemy,
That someone plans a shop bonanza
Early. Not for me!

Good God! Is nothing sacrosanct?
Tradition to be flouted?
Does no-one glean what Christmas means,
What’s holy? Well, I doubt it.

Let all fall down upon their knees,
And for forgiveness pray:
We’re off the rails. The massive sales
Belong to Boxing Day.


The Ass’s View

Isaiah said I knew my master’s crib:
Right in one – it’s where I get my scoff.
I told the ox, come here, look in this box –
A blanket, see it? There’s a rabbit off.

And as I spoke, there came some holy muzak,
A shaft of light, the sound of something mewling.
We gave a frown and tugged the blanket down
(It was a time of night for some refuelling).

A Nazarene was in (this is ‘the annexe’
The publican sends any guests ‘on spec’) –
He came for us. Our manger was in danger:
I brayed; he held the both of us in check,

And in our straw, he placed a tiny infant:
Gaunt and greasy, couldn’t have been smaller.
Though crabby, I am fond of new-born babbies –
I said to Ox, ‘I wonder what they’ll call her.’


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The End Of Meaning, and The Ass's View

Two seasonal poems. The first is about the sales starting before Christmas. The second is a view of the Nativity by the ass, a version of which accountably failed to win a competition, and has been reworked …

26 December 2012


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