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.”
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Saturday, 1 November 2025
Saturday, 9 December 2023
Where Christmas Cannot Call
by Nick Gisburne
Every Christmas calls with warmth and welcome, friendship, laughter, love,
But inside they hide deceptions, dressed as blessings from above.
Every box you ever opened, every gift you ever gave,
Mocks the misery of someone you will never see, or save.
In your stable, safe surroundings, in the calm to which you cling,
Or the rowdy, raucous party where you drink, and dance, and sing,
As you celebrate the season, spare a moment, simple, small,
To remind yourself of all the places Christmas cannot call.
To the victims of the wars whose children never chose to fight.
To the innocents. Their bodies bear the scars of scorn and spite.
To the failures, who will taste the tainted promise of a pill.
To the traumatised, who long to live, but know they never will.
To the dreamers. Rolling waves of terror pound the shores of sleep.
To the moments when the cold and lonely drunkards wake to weep.
To the starving poor, the dispossessed we cast aside, the scum.
To the sight, the smell, the taste of what their shadows have become.
To the filthy streets, corrupted by uncompromising greed.
To the gullible, the herds of helpless fools more lies mislead.
To the beautiful, their fresh and flawless faces doubly blessed.
To the fast-approaching future, when they fade with all the rest.
To the men and women, old, alone, who no one cares to call.
To the fugitives, who find themselves betrayed behind a wall.
To the couples, caught, imprisoned in a lifeless, loveless cage.
To the years they bend and break each other, battered, burned by rage.
To the penitents, whose blood will pay for what they never did.
To the fathers, their protectors, but the beasts from whom they hid.
To the followers, too fearful of their faith to doubt its truth.
To the nameless and the numberless, polluted in their youth.
To the love, unrecognisable, unworthy of the name.
To the hatred, tangled tight inside, the tortures it became.
To the smiling faces, painted by abuse on every head.
To the feeling, fear, we recognise, but only when they’re dead.
To the children who will never know another Christmas Day.
To the mothers, fathers, stolen, slaughtered, spirited away.
To the hungry, to the homeless, to their frozen, empty eyes.
To the pitiful, the powerless, the dregs we demonise.
To the multitudes who still believe the stories in a book.
To the long-forgotten light they might discover if they look.
To the avarice we value, to the charity we shun.
To the vanity polluting every daughter, every son.
To the governments infected by the snakes who sneak inside.
To the souls for whom the most important choices are denied.
To the pain of cold reality, when hope at last is lost.
To the day when every one of us is forced to count the cost.
To the jaded generations, each more bitter than before.
To the lowest, left with nothing, while the strongest squander more.
To the vain, for whom salvation lives a hundred clicks away.
To the beggars forced to put their lives, degraded, on display.
To the wannabes, inventing bigger lies with every boast.
To the sick, the scared, the scorned, who need humanity the most.
To the everyday unveiling of a terminal disease.
To the sight of someone pleading for the answers, on their knees.
To the bullied, who will pass it down to someone smaller, weak.
To the stark, sadistic screams of anger, bloody, black, and bleak.
To the girls who cry, unheeded, in their pillows, no means no.
To the gangs who find another brother strangled in the snow.
To the traitors selling secrets, from their corridors of doom.
To the world they want for all of us, a dark, depressing tomb.
To the screens on which the intimate, the precious, has no worth.
To the feverish believers in a sacred virgin birth.
To the young, who will inherit only poverty and pain.
To the worst of us, but who they are no science can explain.
To the masses who refuse to make a stand to save the day.
To the suffering they see, but in a second step away.
To the past. It seemed the perfect place to listen, look, and learn.
To the present, where the wisdom we were given we will burn.
To the future, to the prize we lost before the race was run.
To the end of it, when everything we did becomes undone.
When you gather at the table, when you fall upon the feast,
Will you spare a bare, abusive thought for those you love the least?
Is there Christmas in your spirit, or a jagged hole to fill,
When you think of all you could have done, but know you never will?
You were lucky. Fate and fortune brought a bounty to your door,
But the world is full of painful portraits, people needing more.
Are you safe? Perhaps. Be sure, because it’s not so far to fall,
To the nightmare, to the nowhere place, where Christmas cannot call.
Every Christmas calls with warmth and welcome, friendship, laughter, love,
But inside they hide deceptions, dressed as blessings from above.
Every box you ever opened, every gift you ever gave,
Mocks the misery of someone you will never see, or save.
In your stable, safe surroundings, in the calm to which you cling,
Or the rowdy, raucous party where you drink, and dance, and sing,
As you celebrate the season, spare a moment, simple, small,
To remind yourself of all the places Christmas cannot call.
To the victims of the wars whose children never chose to fight.
To the innocents. Their bodies bear the scars of scorn and spite.
To the failures, who will taste the tainted promise of a pill.
To the traumatised, who long to live, but know they never will.
To the dreamers. Rolling waves of terror pound the shores of sleep.
To the moments when the cold and lonely drunkards wake to weep.
To the starving poor, the dispossessed we cast aside, the scum.
To the sight, the smell, the taste of what their shadows have become.
To the filthy streets, corrupted by uncompromising greed.
To the gullible, the herds of helpless fools more lies mislead.
To the beautiful, their fresh and flawless faces doubly blessed.
To the fast-approaching future, when they fade with all the rest.
To the men and women, old, alone, who no one cares to call.
To the fugitives, who find themselves betrayed behind a wall.
To the couples, caught, imprisoned in a lifeless, loveless cage.
To the years they bend and break each other, battered, burned by rage.
To the penitents, whose blood will pay for what they never did.
To the fathers, their protectors, but the beasts from whom they hid.
To the followers, too fearful of their faith to doubt its truth.
To the nameless and the numberless, polluted in their youth.
To the love, unrecognisable, unworthy of the name.
To the hatred, tangled tight inside, the tortures it became.
To the smiling faces, painted by abuse on every head.
To the feeling, fear, we recognise, but only when they’re dead.
To the children who will never know another Christmas Day.
To the mothers, fathers, stolen, slaughtered, spirited away.
To the hungry, to the homeless, to their frozen, empty eyes.
To the pitiful, the powerless, the dregs we demonise.
To the multitudes who still believe the stories in a book.
To the long-forgotten light they might discover if they look.
To the avarice we value, to the charity we shun.
To the vanity polluting every daughter, every son.
To the governments infected by the snakes who sneak inside.
To the souls for whom the most important choices are denied.
To the pain of cold reality, when hope at last is lost.
To the day when every one of us is forced to count the cost.
To the jaded generations, each more bitter than before.
To the lowest, left with nothing, while the strongest squander more.
To the vain, for whom salvation lives a hundred clicks away.
To the beggars forced to put their lives, degraded, on display.
To the wannabes, inventing bigger lies with every boast.
To the sick, the scared, the scorned, who need humanity the most.
To the everyday unveiling of a terminal disease.
To the sight of someone pleading for the answers, on their knees.
To the bullied, who will pass it down to someone smaller, weak.
To the stark, sadistic screams of anger, bloody, black, and bleak.
To the girls who cry, unheeded, in their pillows, no means no.
To the gangs who find another brother strangled in the snow.
To the traitors selling secrets, from their corridors of doom.
To the world they want for all of us, a dark, depressing tomb.
To the screens on which the intimate, the precious, has no worth.
To the feverish believers in a sacred virgin birth.
To the young, who will inherit only poverty and pain.
To the worst of us, but who they are no science can explain.
To the masses who refuse to make a stand to save the day.
To the suffering they see, but in a second step away.
To the past. It seemed the perfect place to listen, look, and learn.
To the present, where the wisdom we were given we will burn.
To the future, to the prize we lost before the race was run.
To the end of it, when everything we did becomes undone.
When you gather at the table, when you fall upon the feast,
Will you spare a bare, abusive thought for those you love the least?
Is there Christmas in your spirit, or a jagged hole to fill,
When you think of all you could have done, but know you never will?
You were lucky. Fate and fortune brought a bounty to your door,
But the world is full of painful portraits, people needing more.
Are you safe? Perhaps. Be sure, because it’s not so far to fall,
To the nightmare, to the nowhere place, where Christmas cannot call.
Friday, 26 May 2023
Secret Santa
by Nick Gisburne
He grips the wicker basket on his lap.
The tag, discoloured, dangles from a string.
He failed, with every flawed attempt, to wrap
The gift he never asked to buy, or bring.
They’re told they have to do it, every year.
It’s always been a secret. Now, it’s not.
The door is bolted. Only he is here.
He wonders why they pick on him, a lot.
He’s never been employee of the week,
But, just for this, he really, truly tried.
He should have known the boss’s wife would peek.
She promised that she wouldn’t, but she lied.
He chose it for the festive shade of red.
Who wouldn’t want a severed Santa’s head?
He grips the wicker basket on his lap.
The tag, discoloured, dangles from a string.
He failed, with every flawed attempt, to wrap
The gift he never asked to buy, or bring.
They’re told they have to do it, every year.
It’s always been a secret. Now, it’s not.
The door is bolted. Only he is here.
He wonders why they pick on him, a lot.
He’s never been employee of the week,
But, just for this, he really, truly tried.
He should have known the boss’s wife would peek.
She promised that she wouldn’t, but she lied.
He chose it for the festive shade of red.
Who wouldn’t want a severed Santa’s head?
Wednesday, 7 December 2022
A Christmas Toast
by Nick Gisburne
We celebrate the final Christmas Day
With sweet champagne and cyanide, a toast.
In secret, shot and savaged, from a sleigh
A man is dragged, disfigured, dead, almost.
Through battered lips he whispers, weakly, “Why?”
But no one moves to make him understand.
The focus of the feast today will die,
Convicted by a criminal command.
The corporate leviathan is vast,
And he, revered, respected, is a threat.
Without this bearded relic of the past
The money men will force us to forget.
We toast the end of charity, of cheer,
Unwrapping one more gift, forever: fear.
We celebrate the final Christmas Day
With sweet champagne and cyanide, a toast.
In secret, shot and savaged, from a sleigh
A man is dragged, disfigured, dead, almost.
Through battered lips he whispers, weakly, “Why?”
But no one moves to make him understand.
The focus of the feast today will die,
Convicted by a criminal command.
The corporate leviathan is vast,
And he, revered, respected, is a threat.
Without this bearded relic of the past
The money men will force us to forget.
We toast the end of charity, of cheer,
Unwrapping one more gift, forever: fear.
Wednesday, 11 May 2022
Another Head
by Nick Gisburne
Without the faintest recollection why,
She wakes at dawn beside another head.
An hour in the oven, just to dry,
Then quickly to its resting place, her shed.
A mix of men and women, young and old,
Each noggin is anointed with a name,
And, even in the wildest winter cold,
She adds another, daily, without shame.
A dozen, then a hundred, more and more,
The heads are filed and fitted to the stack.
Her shelves, already buckling the floor,
Are recklessly extended, front and back.
When Christmas comes, she finds no human head,
Just two policemen, standing by the bed.
Without the faintest recollection why,
She wakes at dawn beside another head.
An hour in the oven, just to dry,
Then quickly to its resting place, her shed.
A mix of men and women, young and old,
Each noggin is anointed with a name,
And, even in the wildest winter cold,
She adds another, daily, without shame.
A dozen, then a hundred, more and more,
The heads are filed and fitted to the stack.
Her shelves, already buckling the floor,
Are recklessly extended, front and back.
When Christmas comes, she finds no human head,
Just two policemen, standing by the bed.
Thursday, 21 April 2022
Nativity
by Nick Gisburne
Three witches, on a foggy winter’s eve,
Three followers of cold, malignant light,
Advance towards the hovel they believe
Conceals a stolen sibling from their sight.
The shameful impregnation, by a god,
Infecting her, defenceless, with a child,
Elicits bleak acknowledgement, a nod,
That only those who fight him are defiled.
Too late, they find the wickedness within.
A baby, screaming, shivering, unclean.
Their sister, sick, disgusted in her skin,
Bewildered by the trauma of the scene.
The fingers of the witches clutch and curl.
The bastard son, a god, becomes a girl.
Three witches, on a foggy winter’s eve,
Three followers of cold, malignant light,
Advance towards the hovel they believe
Conceals a stolen sibling from their sight.
The shameful impregnation, by a god,
Infecting her, defenceless, with a child,
Elicits bleak acknowledgement, a nod,
That only those who fight him are defiled.
Too late, they find the wickedness within.
A baby, screaming, shivering, unclean.
Their sister, sick, disgusted in her skin,
Bewildered by the trauma of the scene.
The fingers of the witches clutch and curl.
The bastard son, a god, becomes a girl.
Wednesday, 15 December 2021
Pieces of Poison
by Nick Gisburne
She slaughters happy reindeer for their meat
And hangs the jolly fat man in the suit
Up high, up front, she sits in Santa’s seat
To look for sweet young souls to persecute
She puts a piece of poison in a box
For every eager, anxious, little life
Delighted by the ticking Christmas clocks
She grinds a razor’s edge along her knife
At every midnight murder scene, she laughs
To see the blood beneath a twisted tree
Her fingers daub the crimson autographs
No child will ever wake from sleep to see
As pieces of her poison kill them all
She feasts upon the flesh of those who fall
This was my 600th sonnet, so I decided to take a break from writing them. For now.
She slaughters happy reindeer for their meat
And hangs the jolly fat man in the suit
Up high, up front, she sits in Santa’s seat
To look for sweet young souls to persecute
She puts a piece of poison in a box
For every eager, anxious, little life
Delighted by the ticking Christmas clocks
She grinds a razor’s edge along her knife
At every midnight murder scene, she laughs
To see the blood beneath a twisted tree
Her fingers daub the crimson autographs
No child will ever wake from sleep to see
As pieces of her poison kill them all
She feasts upon the flesh of those who fall
This was my 600th sonnet, so I decided to take a break from writing them. For now.
Tuesday, 12 October 2021
Christmas with a Twist
by Nick Gisburne
We’ve had a touch of trouble with the toys
But all the eager wishes on your list
The luxuries, for little girls and boys
Are ready now for Christmas, with a twist
The dollies have a drug-addicted grin
A grimace, warning daughters to conform
And fashions made of rugged reindeer skin
Traditional and festive: wormy, warm
A sensible solution for the sons:
Munitions, with a jingle and a bell
No plastic, these are heavy, metal guns
Illegal, lethal, difficult to sell
So tie your tiny terrors to the bed
Unless they want to spend their Christmas dead
We’ve had a touch of trouble with the toys
But all the eager wishes on your list
The luxuries, for little girls and boys
Are ready now for Christmas, with a twist
The dollies have a drug-addicted grin
A grimace, warning daughters to conform
And fashions made of rugged reindeer skin
Traditional and festive: wormy, warm
A sensible solution for the sons:
Munitions, with a jingle and a bell
No plastic, these are heavy, metal guns
Illegal, lethal, difficult to sell
So tie your tiny terrors to the bed
Unless they want to spend their Christmas dead
Tuesday, 10 August 2021
Violent Night
by Nick Gisburne
The scene of yet another vicious crime
Torments her soul and wrestles with its peace
A mutilated carpenter this time
Officials, clueless, sanction her release
Her bruises, self-inflicted, sell the lie
The man came out of nowhere, with an axe
A pregnant woman, ambushed. Who knows why?
In cities there are many such attacks
She pats her swollen belly, walks away
Assured that self-defence refutes her blame
She struggles now to find a place to stay
And sleeps inside a stable with her shame
When Mary killed her worthless husband, Joe
She never dreamed how well her plan would go
The scene of yet another vicious crime
Torments her soul and wrestles with its peace
A mutilated carpenter this time
Officials, clueless, sanction her release
Her bruises, self-inflicted, sell the lie
The man came out of nowhere, with an axe
A pregnant woman, ambushed. Who knows why?
In cities there are many such attacks
She pats her swollen belly, walks away
Assured that self-defence refutes her blame
She struggles now to find a place to stay
And sleeps inside a stable with her shame
When Mary killed her worthless husband, Joe
She never dreamed how well her plan would go
Friday, 16 July 2021
The Story of the Snow
by Nick Gisburne
It’s time to close your eyes, my little lamb
To hear me tell the story of the snow
You waited, good as gold, and here I am
Hold tightly to your pillow. Here we go
In Once-Upon-A-Twinkle, far away
Where all the winter winds refused to blow
A man called Father Christmas came to stay
And wondered why there wasn’t any snow
He asked the king and queen, “How can this be?”
But even they confessed they did not know
The old man smiled and said, “Leave it to me
And you shall have the purest, perfect snow”
His reindeer filled the land with white, wet poo
“It smells,” he said, “but that will have to do”
It’s time to close your eyes, my little lamb
To hear me tell the story of the snow
You waited, good as gold, and here I am
Hold tightly to your pillow. Here we go
In Once-Upon-A-Twinkle, far away
Where all the winter winds refused to blow
A man called Father Christmas came to stay
And wondered why there wasn’t any snow
He asked the king and queen, “How can this be?”
But even they confessed they did not know
The old man smiled and said, “Leave it to me
And you shall have the purest, perfect snow”
His reindeer filled the land with white, wet poo
“It smells,” he said, “but that will have to do”
Thursday, 1 July 2021
Late for Christmas
by Nick Gisburne
It’s plausible my heart is now a ghost
That wretched bag of blood no longer beats
Preoccupied, I drove into a post
While looking at the presents on the seats
The tangy scent of lemons nipped my nose
’Twas bleach, a bottle, broken, so I thought
A panic seemed to grip me, and I froze
Would all this Christmas wrapping be for nought?
My scrambled senses realised the need
To move the most expensive gifts away
But when my chest began to freely bleed
I knew I must have overturned the sleigh
If I am dead, the little ones must wait
Without a heartbeat, Santa will be late
It’s plausible my heart is now a ghost
That wretched bag of blood no longer beats
Preoccupied, I drove into a post
While looking at the presents on the seats
The tangy scent of lemons nipped my nose
’Twas bleach, a bottle, broken, so I thought
A panic seemed to grip me, and I froze
Would all this Christmas wrapping be for nought?
My scrambled senses realised the need
To move the most expensive gifts away
But when my chest began to freely bleed
I knew I must have overturned the sleigh
If I am dead, the little ones must wait
Without a heartbeat, Santa will be late
Thursday, 15 April 2021
Christmas Fear
by Nick Gisburne
Behold the decorations on the tree
The Christmas bones, the poisoned paper stars
We light the bleeding candles, martyrs, three
And stuff the skulls of kittens into jars
The children dance with strips of strangled skin
And entrails from the carcass on the floor
The songs of spite and sacrilege begin
We lift our cups and praise the Holy Whore
At midnight, smeared with tainted Yuletide mud
We bait the traps for Santa’s screaming deer
Impalement of the fairy, bathed in blood
Intoxicates our souls with Christmas fear
Rejoice to feel its cold, malignant stain
A season soaked in slaughter, plagued with pain
Behold the decorations on the tree
The Christmas bones, the poisoned paper stars
We light the bleeding candles, martyrs, three
And stuff the skulls of kittens into jars
The children dance with strips of strangled skin
And entrails from the carcass on the floor
The songs of spite and sacrilege begin
We lift our cups and praise the Holy Whore
At midnight, smeared with tainted Yuletide mud
We bait the traps for Santa’s screaming deer
Impalement of the fairy, bathed in blood
Intoxicates our souls with Christmas fear
Rejoice to feel its cold, malignant stain
A season soaked in slaughter, plagued with pain
Tuesday, 29 December 2020
A Touching Christmas Tale
by Nick Gisburne
The snow on Christmas Eve was deep and damp
And lo, there came a knocking at the door
’Twas there I saw a ragged, wretched tramp
Who sang sweet songs of Christmas cheer, and more
He touched my heart and gave my soul a shake
That one so poor as he could bring such joy
I bade him share a meal, a hearty steak
And learned of life when he was just a boy
He smiled and settled deep into the chair
His glass now drained, he drifted into sleep
I carried him outside to take the air
And sliced a knife across his neckline, deep
He touched us all, as children, long ago
And died at Christmas, bleeding in the snow
The snow on Christmas Eve was deep and damp
And lo, there came a knocking at the door
’Twas there I saw a ragged, wretched tramp
Who sang sweet songs of Christmas cheer, and more
He touched my heart and gave my soul a shake
That one so poor as he could bring such joy
I bade him share a meal, a hearty steak
And learned of life when he was just a boy
He smiled and settled deep into the chair
His glass now drained, he drifted into sleep
I carried him outside to take the air
And sliced a knife across his neckline, deep
He touched us all, as children, long ago
And died at Christmas, bleeding in the snow
Wednesday, 25 December 2019
Wings of Hell
by Nick Gisburne
To the tune of ‘Jingle Bells’
Slashing through the bone
To a slaughtered slice of brain
Awful screams and groans
Tortured cries of pain
Hell’s unholy wings
Satan’s wicked might
A swarm of dead and dying things
A slaying throng in flight
Wings of Hell, wings of Hell
Wings of fire and flame
Bodies burned and blazing bright
In a murdered martyr’s name, hey
Wings of Hell, wings of Hell
Wings of death depraved
Corpses torn and traumatised
In a blood-soaked open grave
A baying from below
Where mortals cannot hide
The doom of endless night
With evil at its side
The bile and blood they drank
Is warm with rancid rot
Each traitorous and twisted rank
Obeys the master’s plot
Repeat Chorus
His reign of blood will grow
The gore and carnage swell
As tainted rivers flow
A soiled and septic smell
More legions fill the sky
In a tiny church they pray
But Satan’s vengeance from on high
Will rip their souls away
Repeat Chorus
The Beast is crowned tonight
And from his bride a son
As Lucifer takes flight
His sins have just begun
This diabolic day
Each mortal mouth must feed
The demon spawn, with Satan’s prey
Defiles them with his seed
Repeat Chorus
To the tune of ‘Jingle Bells’
Slashing through the bone
To a slaughtered slice of brain
Awful screams and groans
Tortured cries of pain
Hell’s unholy wings
Satan’s wicked might
A swarm of dead and dying things
A slaying throng in flight
Wings of Hell, wings of Hell
Wings of fire and flame
Bodies burned and blazing bright
In a murdered martyr’s name, hey
Wings of Hell, wings of Hell
Wings of death depraved
Corpses torn and traumatised
In a blood-soaked open grave
A baying from below
Where mortals cannot hide
The doom of endless night
With evil at its side
The bile and blood they drank
Is warm with rancid rot
Each traitorous and twisted rank
Obeys the master’s plot
Repeat Chorus
His reign of blood will grow
The gore and carnage swell
As tainted rivers flow
A soiled and septic smell
More legions fill the sky
In a tiny church they pray
But Satan’s vengeance from on high
Will rip their souls away
Repeat Chorus
The Beast is crowned tonight
And from his bride a son
As Lucifer takes flight
His sins have just begun
This diabolic day
Each mortal mouth must feed
The demon spawn, with Satan’s prey
Defiles them with his seed
Repeat Chorus
Sunday, 8 December 2019
The Bloody Christmas Cake
by Nick Gisburne
It’s Christmas, how dismal, how cheerless, how fake
But this year I’m making my own Christmas cake
The oven is ready, I’ve drunk all the gin
So let’s check the list of the things I’ve put in
The leg of a neigbour, chopped off at the knee
Embalmed in a bucket of gravy and tea
The lips of a cousin who would not be hushed
The teeth from his petulant wife, finely crushed
A long middle finger, cracked off with a snap
Its owner died yesterday, caught in my trap
Two rosy cheeks, boiled in fresh tears for good luck
Four eyeballs, they’re always a challenge to pluck
A sprinkling of toes from the nephew I hate
His head I’ve reserved for my centre-piece plate
Intestines, a tender and savoury crop
So hard to know when to add more, when to stop
A scalp full of hair from an old woman’s head
I’m lucky to have it - she’s seven months dead
Four finger-bones, trapped by the edge of a door
A harvest of toe-nails, swept up from the floor
The spleen from a friend who invited himself
Some dried flakes of skin from the medicine shelf
The heart of an in-law, who won’t need it back
I’m shocked it’s so red, I assumed it was black
Fresh larynx of screaming child I could not find
The mother won’t visit, the drugs make her blind
The father dropped in but he won’t be home soon
I pulled out his kidneys with strings and a spoon
The balls from an uncle who no-one will miss
He stunk of stale vomit, old cabbage and piss
And grandfather’s liver, for flavour and taste
We can’t let a lifetime of booze go to waste
A mixture of knee-caps and noses and bones
Their owners all addicts of selfies and phones
A pinch of appendix, a handful of veins
The one thing I couldn’t find fresh was good brains
Black tar, to give all this an overnight soak
From grandma’s old lungs and their 60-year smoke
There’s gallons of blood and a pint of fresh spit
It’s mixed and it’s cooking and here I now sit
You’re welcome to try it, I’ll cut you a slice
And do try the pink skin and tonic, with ice
This Christmas is special, but please stay awake
Or you’ll become part of my next Christmas cake
It’s Christmas, how dismal, how cheerless, how fake
But this year I’m making my own Christmas cake
The oven is ready, I’ve drunk all the gin
So let’s check the list of the things I’ve put in
The leg of a neigbour, chopped off at the knee
Embalmed in a bucket of gravy and tea
The lips of a cousin who would not be hushed
The teeth from his petulant wife, finely crushed
A long middle finger, cracked off with a snap
Its owner died yesterday, caught in my trap
Two rosy cheeks, boiled in fresh tears for good luck
Four eyeballs, they’re always a challenge to pluck
A sprinkling of toes from the nephew I hate
His head I’ve reserved for my centre-piece plate
Intestines, a tender and savoury crop
So hard to know when to add more, when to stop
A scalp full of hair from an old woman’s head
I’m lucky to have it - she’s seven months dead
Four finger-bones, trapped by the edge of a door
A harvest of toe-nails, swept up from the floor
The spleen from a friend who invited himself
Some dried flakes of skin from the medicine shelf
The heart of an in-law, who won’t need it back
I’m shocked it’s so red, I assumed it was black
Fresh larynx of screaming child I could not find
The mother won’t visit, the drugs make her blind
The father dropped in but he won’t be home soon
I pulled out his kidneys with strings and a spoon
The balls from an uncle who no-one will miss
He stunk of stale vomit, old cabbage and piss
And grandfather’s liver, for flavour and taste
We can’t let a lifetime of booze go to waste
A mixture of knee-caps and noses and bones
Their owners all addicts of selfies and phones
A pinch of appendix, a handful of veins
The one thing I couldn’t find fresh was good brains
Black tar, to give all this an overnight soak
From grandma’s old lungs and their 60-year smoke
There’s gallons of blood and a pint of fresh spit
It’s mixed and it’s cooking and here I now sit
You’re welcome to try it, I’ll cut you a slice
And do try the pink skin and tonic, with ice
This Christmas is special, but please stay awake
Or you’ll become part of my next Christmas cake
Thursday, 27 December 2018
I’m Allergic to Christmas
by Nick Gisburne
I’m allergic to Christmas, it’s always been true
And each year the symptoms come back, like the flu
The ear-ache from hearing the same Christmas tunes
And lip-strain from blowing up endless balloons
There’s nothing on telly, it’s all the same shit
So Christmas can fuck off, I’m cancelling it
I’m allergic to Christmas, the sprouts make me sick
The pigs wrapped in blankets, like skins on old dick
What kind of a monster eats parsnips for fun?
Or stuffing balls scorched by the heat of the sun?
The gravy’s like something leaked out of an arse
The best thing to do is abandon this farce
I’m allergic to Christmas, and starting this year
I’m taking my medicine - beer and more beer
A 24-pack of strong lager each day
Will keep all the unwanted callers at bay
This Christmas it won’t be the dinner you knew
No turkey, just re-heated lamb vindaloo
I’m allergic to Christmas, I make my own cards
For glitter I grind down some sharp metal shards
The snow is asbestos, crushed under my heel
The dead robin red-breast? I killed it - that’s real
The glue’s full of chemical solvents, all banned
Don’t touch it, you’ll burn half the skin off your hand
I’m allergic to Christmas, the people are worst
The grandma whose septic appendix won’t burst
Your uncle who’s constantly rubbing his knees
And picking at sores laced with fungal disease
The kids, little bastards who kick you and scream
Don’t wriggle so much when you scald them with steam
I’m allergic to Christmas, so piss off back home
I don’t want a gallon of cheap shaving foam
I’ve got enough bath soap to scrub down the moon
I won’t need more stripy socks any time soon
You knew what I wanted, I’ve got none of that
Don’t come back next year, you incompetent twat
I’m allergic to Christmas, just leave me alone
You’ll only sit stupidly glued to your phone
I don’t want your smiles and I don’t want your tat
I will not be wearing a comedy hat
Don’t argue, it’s over, stop asking me why
I’ve burned all the presents, I hope you all die
I’m allergic to Christmas, it’s always been true
And each year the symptoms come back, like the flu
The ear-ache from hearing the same Christmas tunes
And lip-strain from blowing up endless balloons
There’s nothing on telly, it’s all the same shit
So Christmas can fuck off, I’m cancelling it
I’m allergic to Christmas, the sprouts make me sick
The pigs wrapped in blankets, like skins on old dick
What kind of a monster eats parsnips for fun?
Or stuffing balls scorched by the heat of the sun?
The gravy’s like something leaked out of an arse
The best thing to do is abandon this farce
I’m allergic to Christmas, and starting this year
I’m taking my medicine - beer and more beer
A 24-pack of strong lager each day
Will keep all the unwanted callers at bay
This Christmas it won’t be the dinner you knew
No turkey, just re-heated lamb vindaloo
I’m allergic to Christmas, I make my own cards
For glitter I grind down some sharp metal shards
The snow is asbestos, crushed under my heel
The dead robin red-breast? I killed it - that’s real
The glue’s full of chemical solvents, all banned
Don’t touch it, you’ll burn half the skin off your hand
I’m allergic to Christmas, the people are worst
The grandma whose septic appendix won’t burst
Your uncle who’s constantly rubbing his knees
And picking at sores laced with fungal disease
The kids, little bastards who kick you and scream
Don’t wriggle so much when you scald them with steam
I’m allergic to Christmas, so piss off back home
I don’t want a gallon of cheap shaving foam
I’ve got enough bath soap to scrub down the moon
I won’t need more stripy socks any time soon
You knew what I wanted, I’ve got none of that
Don’t come back next year, you incompetent twat
I’m allergic to Christmas, just leave me alone
You’ll only sit stupidly glued to your phone
I don’t want your smiles and I don’t want your tat
I will not be wearing a comedy hat
Don’t argue, it’s over, stop asking me why
I’ve burned all the presents, I hope you all die
Thursday, 6 December 2012
We Wish You Would Bury Christmas
We Wish You Would Bury Christmas
by Nick Gisburne
Yes it’s here again, believe it, there is nothing you can do
It’s been creeping up on all of us and now it’s coming true
Can’t ignore it, can’t escape it, you are trapped within a maze
Hearing Christmas music everywhere for ninety fucking days
Christmas Day? Christmas fanny! I am having none of that
I would rather chop my fingers off or violate the cat
If you want to know the reason for the season, this is it:
It’s a waste of money, Christmas time is shit
All the shops are filled with snowmen, there is tinsel by the mile
And on every cheery Christmas face a stupid fucking smile
I don’t understand the message that you want to get across
Balls to Christmas, I am bored of it, I couldn’t give a toss
Merry what? Merry bollocks! Stick the tree right up your arse
I am sick and tired of Christmas, it’s a scam and it’s a farce
If you want to know the reason for the season, here’s a clue:
Eat and drink and drink and eat and drink and screw
So the family is gathered for the first time in a year
And you wish they’d all been trampled by a herd of Santa’s deer
But the little ones are hoping they’ll see Rudolph in the sky
Can’t they choke on turkey sandwiches or fuck off home and die?
Santa who? Santa shit-head! You’re not on his fucking list
He’s your uncle in a costume and he’ll grope you when he’s pissed
If you want to know the reason for the season, check his breath
That’s not cranberries, it’s crystal fucking meth
And there’s always the religious one who wants to say a prayer
But she thinks again with boiling gravy poured onto her hair
It’s not bad enough that Easter gets the god squad in a flap
No, they have to ruin Christmas with their superstitious crap
Jesus who? Jesus wank stain! Who the bloody hell are you?
You were born inside a stable, eh? Well whoopty fucking do
If you tell me you’re the reason for the season, yeah, so what?
You were crucified? Well I’d have had you shot
Where’s my Christmas spirit? In a bottle, in my fucking hand
I’d be happier if Christmas time was burned alive or banned
It’s been sent to torture all of us, a never-ending grind
And it’s all because some pervy God took Mary from behind
Jingle what? Jingle bell end! I’ve had quite enough of this
Every happy smiling face I see sends shivers down my piss
If you want to know the reason for the season, read the book
Merry Christmas? I don’t give a flying fuck
Thursday, 10 February 2011
Three Little Boxes
Three Little Boxes
by Nick Gisburne
It is midnight at Christmas, and under the tree
There are three little boxes, as neat as can be
Tied up tight to the corners, with ribbons and bows
Are the names of three children, to whom we suppose
These are presents from Santa, brought here on his sleigh
For the three little children, this cold Christmas Day
In the garden are criss-crossed the trails of their feet
They have built up their snowmen and each is complete
And the moon like a spotlight bathes all in its glow
And the three little snowmen stand proudly as though
They are three little soldiers, their eyes gleaming bright
In the cold of the winter, the chill of the night
Though the embers are dimming, the coals cooling quick
On the hearth lies old Rover, stretched out on the brick
He had chased the three children and tumbled and rolled
Till at last they had led him inside from the cold
And they fed him and loved him and then as he slept
They had tiptoed away and to bed they all crept
If you peek through the curtains you’ll see him I’ll bet
See the red-breasted robin, not nesting, not yet
Sitting still by the window, who knows what he sees?
Did he notice the reindeer fly over the trees?
Was the robin a witness as Santa flew down
And returned, as he promised he would, to the town?
Yes the eyes of the robin took all of it in
As the man we call Santa approached with a grin
With a sack full of boxes slung over his back
And those jolly red features, the boots big and black
He walked up to the doorway, and there did he stand
With a gleam in his eyes... and a knife in his hand
As he pushed the door open and entered the hall
There was faithful old Rover, who brought him a ball
He could fetch it or chase it, or run for a treat
For a small, tasty morsel, for something to eat
Or as any dog loves, just a stroke of his coat
Santa tickled his chin... and then cut out his throat
It was sudden, no struggle, no effort, no fight
And a life quickly ended on Christmas Eve night
Then he turned and he stood at the foot of the stair
And the robin, still watching, now followed him there
And the smell of the blood at the scene of the crime
Disregarded by Santa, who started to climb
There were seventeen carpeted steps to the top
Before Santa and robin both came to a stop
Then the sack filled with boxes was put to the floor
And he took out just one and brought it to a door
Where the breath of an infant, so small where he slept
Was the signal for Santa, and inside he crept
Though the robin stood watching, he could not go in
Couldn’t witness this madness, this evil, this sin
Into three of the bedrooms the bearded man stole
And whatever his labour, whatever his goal
He took three little boxes, but brought them all back
And each one he then carefully placed in his sack
But the door to one bedroom he left well alone
Only children he visits, this much is well known
And the robin saw Santa step soft on each stair
While the parents, still dreaming, slept on unaware
And with Santa now gone there was no more to see
Just the three little boxes left under the tree
Near the window the robin sits far from his nest
For the blood of this night colours even his breast
The old dog on the hearth lies there dead, not asleep
And the eyes of the snowmen are real, and they weep
For the three little children lie still in their beds
And in three little boxes... are three little heads