by Nick Gisburne
Always smile, and whisper thank you, when the food is on your plate.
He’ll be home before you know it, and the pathway to his hate
Is a flicker of ingratitude, a sign you might resent
Any fraction of the pittance of the working wage he spent
On a child he never wanted, and a wife he treats with scorn.
So pretend he doesn’t wish that you and I were never born.
When he threatens you, be good. Say, “Merry Christmas.”
This is not your fault, I promise you. The anger and the spite
Are the dangerous creations of a man who lost the fight
With a world too calm, too clever, for a lunatic like him.
Could he change? Who knows? The chances are incalculably slim.
He is set and he is certain. He is all he wants to be.
His creation is the punishment, the prison that you see.
When he forms another fist, say, "Merry Christmas."
There were moments. I remember them, the music when we met.
There was power in that heart of his, a confidence, and yet
When I told him there were two of us, the mother and the son,
There was silence for a moment, as his plans unwound, undone.
When he told me that the three of us were just as good as two,
I was reckless to believe the lie. I trusted him with you.
When he spews his toxic spite, say, “Merry Christmas.”
I was told he had a history, and children of his own,
But they turned away, rejected him, and in their place has grown
Irritation, rage, resentment, for a bond that cannot be,
With a boy who tried to like him, but was not too blind to see
That a man who cares for nobody, whose burning heart is black,
Is a shark who senses weakness and will viciously attack.
When he bares his teeth to bite, say, “Merry Christmas.”
I remember every Christmas Day. I wish I could forget
That with every toy you carefully unwrapped there came a threat.
Never good enough, your smiles were artificial in his eyes,
And in time there grew a grudge no decoration could disguise.
At the meal we sit in silence, as we tiptoe to the end.
As we try, we cry, but this is not a menace we can mend.
When he cracks another plate, say, “Merry Christmas.”
This will not be like the others, not the ghost of Christmas past.
We are destined to collide with what we leave behind, at last.
Let him scoff and sneer and shame us as we celebrate our love,
And let all the fallen angels, from the broken skies above,
Guide the hand of fate, of destiny, to seize and swing the knife,
As I penetrate the darkness, as I take his tainted life.
When he dies, we’ll scream, “Surprise!” and, “Merry Christmas.”
