For I'll consider public hell with red buses and an incessantly ringing bell.
For I won't escape the angry shouts, the rage-filled screams, the duck-faced pouts.
For I'll consider how I ran to reach the idle standing bus,
with the driver pulling away, looking for pay, leaving me by the pavement to wait another day,
the amber light flickers between passion and jealousy.
Damn! Do I have the £2:35 or is it £2:40?
For I'll consider the window seat to enjoy the view. I sure hope you don't consider it too.
Or worse, I hope you don't join me and inflict a curse, by speaking in unwanted verse, if that's the case, I'd rather take a hearse,
For I'll never escape the modern-day Rousseau staring out of the glass,
or the bus driver screaming "fuck out the way or I'll tan your...behind."
For I'll consider the angry young man speaking his mind or the philosopher trying to think, the middle-aged drunk with his open can of drink or the chatty passenger thinking he's a shrink.
For I'll consider the tube accessed only by ticket or card.
Got no money mate? Sorry man, you're barred!
For there'll always be windows carved with names
Dan, Tom, Michael, James
For there'll always be that one man staring at me from Uxbridge to Aldgate, from zone 1 to zone 8, from Epping to Ealing Broadway.
They never stop, do they?
For there'll always be me squished between two men, like a battery-reared hen, reading the Metro over someone's shoulder, trying to pretending I'm not getting older, as I hear
patronising people saying public transport causes less pollution, congestion, aggravation.
Do they not hear the moans, the shouts, the frustration?
For there'll be always be that one selfish bastard throwing himself under the tracks, making us all late.
It's not our problem. Why do we have to wait?
For we are Londoners with our stiff upper lip, letting nowt affect us, unless our transport cocks up, which is when we jump ship.
For there'll always be rescheduling and delays and a busker singing "bout your plans to make me blue."
But I wanna know if the trains run for 24 hours on weekends, will the rail replacement bus service run for all that time too?
For there'll always be a taxi painted black, with a driver nattering away
"the other day, my little girl said the metre's running,
I think she'll grow up to become a cabbie, just like her daddy."
I wasn't so sure.
For I'll never escape the driver asking "where to mate?"
Oh just down the street? That'll be £9:28."
For there'll always be middle finger salutes, cunts calling each other cunts.
For I'll never escape the seatbelt getting jammed or my body being crammed or my suitcase getting slammed.
For there'll always be the demon ghosting into the taxi rank, playing a prank,
But he doesn't fool me.
For there'll always be that mug, stealing innocence, numb to their screams, while the concrete walls look on. They're used to it.
For I'll never escape the inevitable Atmos sticker or the CO2 fumes becoming thicker and thicker or the split oil making the road slicker and slicker.
For I'll never escape London's leading attraction,
the one you should always book for.
For I'll never escape the taxi filled with Saharan desert air,
For there'll always be apple and pear, or a chocolate eclair or a steak done rare fighting in my stomach to be the first to make the return journey.
For I will never escape public transport, as I live in London and the congestion charge makes it freaking expensive to drive there.
*Author's Notes*
So this is a poem I originally started writing in a Creative Writing lecture months ago and I left it untouched, until a few weeks ago, when I thought I would end it. This poem may seem a little different from my others, as I've tried to make this one a 'performance/slam poem' and I'm not sure how successful I was. Compared to my other poetry, there is much greater emphasis on rhyme and rhythm. If you're from London, then you know my troubles.
Homage to Public Transport poetry performance
Tuesday, 31 January 2017
Tuesday, 17 January 2017
Soldiers in White Coats and Blue Scrubs
The Men in Suits always come to visit us when they need to be popular:
the wrinkled old man, me with the tube up my nose. They promise
to sand down the floors, to carry the nurses' bags,
but they're not the ones who keep away the grime, who keep away the hunger.
The Men in Suits don't have the time, so instead,
we rely on our soldiers in white coats and blue scrubs.
The Men with black shoes always visit us when they need to be popular.
They always visit me when my bags are heaviest,
when my bones are achiest,
after I've just finished washing my hands.
We wouldn't want to get other people's muck
on their spic-and-span shoes, would we?
The Man in a blue tie ignores me, as he walks across the polished floors.
He takes notice of the naked yellow sunshine,
the cracks in the walls
and wrinkles of our exhausted soldiers,
of our buildings stacked on top of one another,
like a game of Tetris gone wrong.
If we don't get enough ticks, it might
be game over for all of us.
The Man with studded cufflinks points to the running junior doctor
with a crooked tie and wavy hair.
He is pointing to me, as I hold pink lansoprazole to quell Mr. Watson's raging stomach.
He's an old man, you see. He can't take much pain I tell him,
We're understaffed, I tell him,
I'm always running, I tell him,
from patient to patient, from nurse to nurse, to
the senior doctor to decode my colleagues' hieroglyphics.
The Men in Suits line us up for our final register,
They straighten their ties,
They uncrease their trousers,
They clear their throats,
They inspect every single one
of our loyal troops.
The junior doctor who is still panting furiously.
The nurse displaying her polished silver watch, as if it were a war medal,
The cleaner with his trusty mop and bucket always standing by,
The hospital consultant whose forehead displays his battle scars,
The electrician trying to protect the lightbulb's modesty,
And me, the civillian, with the tube up my nose.
The Men in Suits take out their checkboards and pens.
One cross is all we need
to be dissolved.
Our victories will be forgotten,
our trophies will lie buried underneath
the dirt.
Never to shine again.
*Author's Notes*
So this is the second draft of a poem I'm working on for a competition about the NHS.The general idea behind it is how the NHS is suffering from being underfunded, but it's still soldiering on and doing what it's doing without complaints. Thanks to Jaz for beta-reading this and my dad for telling me about lansoprazole.
the wrinkled old man, me with the tube up my nose. They promise
to sand down the floors, to carry the nurses' bags,
but they're not the ones who keep away the grime, who keep away the hunger.
The Men in Suits don't have the time, so instead,
we rely on our soldiers in white coats and blue scrubs.
The Men with black shoes always visit us when they need to be popular.
They always visit me when my bags are heaviest,
when my bones are achiest,
after I've just finished washing my hands.
We wouldn't want to get other people's muck
on their spic-and-span shoes, would we?
The Man in a blue tie ignores me, as he walks across the polished floors.
He takes notice of the naked yellow sunshine,
the cracks in the walls
and wrinkles of our exhausted soldiers,
of our buildings stacked on top of one another,
like a game of Tetris gone wrong.
If we don't get enough ticks, it might
be game over for all of us.
The Man with studded cufflinks points to the running junior doctor
with a crooked tie and wavy hair.
He is pointing to me, as I hold pink lansoprazole to quell Mr. Watson's raging stomach.
He's an old man, you see. He can't take much pain I tell him,
We're understaffed, I tell him,
I'm always running, I tell him,
from patient to patient, from nurse to nurse, to
the senior doctor to decode my colleagues' hieroglyphics.
The Men in Suits line us up for our final register,
They straighten their ties,
They uncrease their trousers,
They clear their throats,
They inspect every single one
of our loyal troops.
The junior doctor who is still panting furiously.
The nurse displaying her polished silver watch, as if it were a war medal,
The cleaner with his trusty mop and bucket always standing by,
The hospital consultant whose forehead displays his battle scars,
The electrician trying to protect the lightbulb's modesty,
And me, the civillian, with the tube up my nose.
The Men in Suits take out their checkboards and pens.
One cross is all we need
to be dissolved.
Our victories will be forgotten,
our trophies will lie buried underneath
the dirt.
Never to shine again.
*Author's Notes*
So this is the second draft of a poem I'm working on for a competition about the NHS.The general idea behind it is how the NHS is suffering from being underfunded, but it's still soldiering on and doing what it's doing without complaints. Thanks to Jaz for beta-reading this and my dad for telling me about lansoprazole.
Tuesday, 10 January 2017
Country Roads
All roads lead to nowhere,
except for the one that takes me home,
my favourite one that stretches
into fields of nothingness.
Bare land whose only
inhabitant is an idyllic peace,
held by generations gone by.
Sitting in the field's centre
is a creaky, comforting farmhouse,
that'll always exist
even as an everlasting memory.
Mind your head!
Watch the rafters,
which hang as lazily as
the farmer does,
on a long, long, so long Sunday afternoon.
His only companion is a Sheep dog
and the Murder of Crows that are sheltering in the stables.
Why not? All of the little ponies
have gone out to play.
People always say that there's a difference
between loneliness and solitude.
A rocking chair endlessly sways,
as the chirping of cicadas fade into silence.
The farmer stares into serenity,
as the wind dances through the corn and barley.
The Murder of Crows take flight from the stables
and fly into the silhouette of the dying light.
*Author's Notes*
So, this is the first thing I've posted on here in quite a few months, but I wrote this in a creative writing seminar I had. Our prompt was to talk to someone and get them to describe their home to you and from that we wrote a piece of writing. The girl I was talking to described her home as an old farmhouse in the middle of the country. Hope you enjoy. This was the second piece of writing that I have had published.
except for the one that takes me home,
my favourite one that stretches
into fields of nothingness.
Bare land whose only
inhabitant is an idyllic peace,
held by generations gone by.
Sitting in the field's centre
is a creaky, comforting farmhouse,
that'll always exist
even as an everlasting memory.
Mind your head!
Watch the rafters,
which hang as lazily as
the farmer does,
on a long, long, so long Sunday afternoon.
His only companion is a Sheep dog
and the Murder of Crows that are sheltering in the stables.
Why not? All of the little ponies
have gone out to play.
People always say that there's a difference
between loneliness and solitude.
A rocking chair endlessly sways,
as the chirping of cicadas fade into silence.
The farmer stares into serenity,
as the wind dances through the corn and barley.
The Murder of Crows take flight from the stables
and fly into the silhouette of the dying light.
*Author's Notes*
So, this is the first thing I've posted on here in quite a few months, but I wrote this in a creative writing seminar I had. Our prompt was to talk to someone and get them to describe their home to you and from that we wrote a piece of writing. The girl I was talking to described her home as an old farmhouse in the middle of the country. Hope you enjoy. This was the second piece of writing that I have had published.
Tuesday, 3 January 2017
Silence
It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to speak out and remove all doubt Abraham Lincoln
Everyone already likes you. Everyone already loves you. You're the lovable fool, the village idiot. Everyone already knows you're the one who sits back, who stays silent. You're the passive one, the submissive one, the subordinate one. Everyone already knows you're the one who ignores the pain, who dances in the sunshine and runs from the rain. You're the one who walks on by, you're the one who never says a word. You know that everyone already thinks you're a fool. Why shatter that illusion? After all, everyone already likes you. Everyone already loves you.
Her transmission is lost in the static. Your transmission is lost in the static. Yet you know that she's still watching you. Judging you and your every movement. You want her to send words swimming into the void. She wants you to send words swimming into the void. You speak. She thinks, ponders, contemplates. She sighs out a response, which sends the words crawling back down your throat. You should have stayed silent. She already thought you were a fool and now you've just confirmed it.
Silverware dances through the darkness. A splash of red. One last cry. One last glint of the moonlight. You have so many regrets, but one last threat persuades you to shut the window, to lock the door. The key sticks in the hole, but it turns full circle. You see the sideways stare. The black metal striking up; staring into the eye of the devil. You're safe. The person next to you isn't. You want to call, to shout, to scream, but the words are hiding in the bottom of your stomach. You're already a fool. Why remove the doubt?
They want you to stay silent. They want you to listen. They want you to forget the mushroom clouds, the wall of skulls, the bloodthirsty crowds. They want you to forget Vietnam, the Somme, the gladiatorial games. They want you to forget Khan, Stalin, Zedong and all of their victim's names. They want you to forget the horror, forget the pain. They want you to run from the rain. They want you to stay the lovable fool, the village idiot. Ignorance is bliss, isn't it? It is better to stay silent and remain a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt, wouldn't you agree?
*author's notes*
Bloody hell, this turned out dark and very abstract. This quotation really describes me. Yes...my very fragmented, disjointed thoughts concerning the given quotation. Hmm. All credit to Abraham Lincoln for the quotation, although it could have been Rami Belson who said this . With thanks to my friend Zayd for helping me edit this. This is one of my more abstract poems. Have a go at interpreting it. What do you think it means?
My latest in my poetry inspired by famous quotations.
1. Left Behind
2. Shattered
3. Crystal
4. Revival
Everyone already likes you. Everyone already loves you. You're the lovable fool, the village idiot. Everyone already knows you're the one who sits back, who stays silent. You're the passive one, the submissive one, the subordinate one. Everyone already knows you're the one who ignores the pain, who dances in the sunshine and runs from the rain. You're the one who walks on by, you're the one who never says a word. You know that everyone already thinks you're a fool. Why shatter that illusion? After all, everyone already likes you. Everyone already loves you.
Her transmission is lost in the static. Your transmission is lost in the static. Yet you know that she's still watching you. Judging you and your every movement. You want her to send words swimming into the void. She wants you to send words swimming into the void. You speak. She thinks, ponders, contemplates. She sighs out a response, which sends the words crawling back down your throat. You should have stayed silent. She already thought you were a fool and now you've just confirmed it.
Silverware dances through the darkness. A splash of red. One last cry. One last glint of the moonlight. You have so many regrets, but one last threat persuades you to shut the window, to lock the door. The key sticks in the hole, but it turns full circle. You see the sideways stare. The black metal striking up; staring into the eye of the devil. You're safe. The person next to you isn't. You want to call, to shout, to scream, but the words are hiding in the bottom of your stomach. You're already a fool. Why remove the doubt?
They want you to stay silent. They want you to listen. They want you to forget the mushroom clouds, the wall of skulls, the bloodthirsty crowds. They want you to forget Vietnam, the Somme, the gladiatorial games. They want you to forget Khan, Stalin, Zedong and all of their victim's names. They want you to forget the horror, forget the pain. They want you to run from the rain. They want you to stay the lovable fool, the village idiot. Ignorance is bliss, isn't it? It is better to stay silent and remain a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt, wouldn't you agree?
*author's notes*
Bloody hell, this turned out dark and very abstract. This quotation really describes me. Yes...my very fragmented, disjointed thoughts concerning the given quotation. Hmm. All credit to Abraham Lincoln for the quotation, although it could have been Rami Belson who said this . With thanks to my friend Zayd for helping me edit this. This is one of my more abstract poems. Have a go at interpreting it. What do you think it means?
My latest in my poetry inspired by famous quotations.
1. Left Behind
2. Shattered
3. Crystal
4. Revival
Tuesday, 27 December 2016
Immortal
Glass eye mounted high,
winged beauty frozen in time,
varnished beaks can't cry
*Author's notes*
A simple haiku about taxidermy.
My fifth in my collection of environmental poetry.
1. Extinct.
2. Harpoon
3. Crocodile Tears
4. The Pack
winged beauty frozen in time,
varnished beaks can't cry
*Author's notes*
A simple haiku about taxidermy.
My fifth in my collection of environmental poetry.
1. Extinct.
2. Harpoon
3. Crocodile Tears
4. The Pack
Tuesday, 13 December 2016
Oh Fuck it
OH FUCK IT!
Did I just swear? Did I just curse? No, I said something even worse.
Nothing to do with innocence stolen across a sheet or desperate screams in the night.
Nothing to do with a "yes, yes, yes" or giving up a sweaty, exhausting fight.
Nothing to do with awkward encounters or becoming a man.
Nothing to do with giving up so much in such a short span.
Nothing to do with two lovers writhing in the dark or knowing your way around.
Nothing to do with becoming lost in paradise or in that sensuous sound.
Nothing to do with lips that kiss and eyes that see all.
Nothing to do with a heartbeat that can rise and fall.
But what if I had? What if that verb that drips with darkness, that verb whose innocence has been twisted and manipulated had crept, like a silent assassin, out of my mouth? Everyone would lose their shit. FUCK IT! Did I do it again?
It's not as if I was talking about the land of flames,
the eternal dark, the tortuous games.
I'm not talking about the silence who speaks too much; the black cavern,
without an echo of sound.
In hell, nobody can hear you scream.
In the void, there's the solitary beating of a solitary heart.
Whose is it? Is it yours? Did I drive you mad by saying the "h" word or the "v" word?
We don't have "h" or "v" words, but we have the "F" word. We have fuck.
Oh, fuck it! Did I say it again?
Oh you cunt! Fuck it, did I do it again? Did I swear? Did I curse? No, I said something even worse. I spoke about the fallen angel.
The fallen angel with a cleft on his chin and a split in his hoof.
The fallen angel who had been exiled by our all mighty Creator.
The fallen angel with his own faith and following who resides in his underworld.
The fallen angel with a trident to match Poseidon's.
The fallen angel who exists solely on belief.
The fallen angel that was known to the ancient civilisations as Pluto, Hades and Horus. We call him Lucifer, Satan, Krop Tor, but what for? We have so many names for the evillest man in creation, yet we are allowed to say them all. We don't have a "P" word or an "L" word, but we have the "C" word. We have cunt. Oh, fuck it! Did I say it again?
Oh son of a bitch! Spare me the pitch. Is bitch so bad? Did I insult? Did I offend? Swearing is a fucking Godsend. Oh, fuck it! I said it again.
You open the paper.
You turn the page, someone has been murdered.
You turn the page, someone else has been killed.
You turn the page, someone else has died.
The papers are full of blood, but nobody reacts. Nobody complains or protests or revolts!
We don't have an "m" word or a "k" word or a "d" word. All we have is the "B" word. All we have is bitch! Oh, fuck it, did I swear again?
Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! Did I upset you? Did I make you cry? Just because I called you a child that was born out of wedlock. That's fucking archaic. Oh you bastard! I said fuck again. Now dry those tears, you little anachronism.
Cry, if I told you about genocide.
Cry, if I told you about Cambodia or Jim Jones.
Cry, if I told you about the Bosnians or the Pygmies.
Cry, if I told you about the Aboriginee abductees.
Cry, if I told you about Columbine or Sandy Hook.
Cry, if I told you about everything that they took.
Cry, if I told you about the slaves,
Cry, as you walk over every single victim's grave.
Don't you dare shed a tear when I say bastard. Oh, fuck it! I swore again.
Life is such a fucking bitch.
*Author's Notes*
For all of the overly-sensitive people who go bat crap crazy after hearing a rather minor word such as "fuck" and "cunt." Words such as murder or genocide have much worse meanings, yet they're not condemned. We're not punished if we say those words. Maybe this is more of a rant I compressed into a poem.
Did I just swear? Did I just curse? No, I said something even worse.
Nothing to do with innocence stolen across a sheet or desperate screams in the night.
Nothing to do with a "yes, yes, yes" or giving up a sweaty, exhausting fight.
Nothing to do with awkward encounters or becoming a man.
Nothing to do with giving up so much in such a short span.
Nothing to do with two lovers writhing in the dark or knowing your way around.
Nothing to do with becoming lost in paradise or in that sensuous sound.
Nothing to do with lips that kiss and eyes that see all.
Nothing to do with a heartbeat that can rise and fall.
But what if I had? What if that verb that drips with darkness, that verb whose innocence has been twisted and manipulated had crept, like a silent assassin, out of my mouth? Everyone would lose their shit. FUCK IT! Did I do it again?
It's not as if I was talking about the land of flames,
the eternal dark, the tortuous games.
I'm not talking about the silence who speaks too much; the black cavern,
without an echo of sound.
In hell, nobody can hear you scream.
In the void, there's the solitary beating of a solitary heart.
Whose is it? Is it yours? Did I drive you mad by saying the "h" word or the "v" word?
We don't have "h" or "v" words, but we have the "F" word. We have fuck.
Oh, fuck it! Did I say it again?
Oh you cunt! Fuck it, did I do it again? Did I swear? Did I curse? No, I said something even worse. I spoke about the fallen angel.
The fallen angel with a cleft on his chin and a split in his hoof.
The fallen angel who had been exiled by our all mighty Creator.
The fallen angel with his own faith and following who resides in his underworld.
The fallen angel with a trident to match Poseidon's.
The fallen angel who exists solely on belief.
The fallen angel that was known to the ancient civilisations as Pluto, Hades and Horus. We call him Lucifer, Satan, Krop Tor, but what for? We have so many names for the evillest man in creation, yet we are allowed to say them all. We don't have a "P" word or an "L" word, but we have the "C" word. We have cunt. Oh, fuck it! Did I say it again?
Oh son of a bitch! Spare me the pitch. Is bitch so bad? Did I insult? Did I offend? Swearing is a fucking Godsend. Oh, fuck it! I said it again.
You open the paper.
You turn the page, someone has been murdered.
You turn the page, someone else has been killed.
You turn the page, someone else has died.
The papers are full of blood, but nobody reacts. Nobody complains or protests or revolts!
We don't have an "m" word or a "k" word or a "d" word. All we have is the "B" word. All we have is bitch! Oh, fuck it, did I swear again?
Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! Did I upset you? Did I make you cry? Just because I called you a child that was born out of wedlock. That's fucking archaic. Oh you bastard! I said fuck again. Now dry those tears, you little anachronism.
Cry, if I told you about genocide.
Cry, if I told you about Cambodia or Jim Jones.
Cry, if I told you about the Bosnians or the Pygmies.
Cry, if I told you about the Aboriginee abductees.
Cry, if I told you about Columbine or Sandy Hook.
Cry, if I told you about everything that they took.
Cry, if I told you about the slaves,
Cry, as you walk over every single victim's grave.
Don't you dare shed a tear when I say bastard. Oh, fuck it! I swore again.
Life is such a fucking bitch.
*Author's Notes*
For all of the overly-sensitive people who go bat crap crazy after hearing a rather minor word such as "fuck" and "cunt." Words such as murder or genocide have much worse meanings, yet they're not condemned. We're not punished if we say those words. Maybe this is more of a rant I compressed into a poem.
Saturday, 3 December 2016
The True Meaning of Christmas
It's not about that pesky snow,
fluttering down,
coating the ground,
spreading all around,
to become crushed,
turned into mush.
It's not about runny noses, red cheeks,
transport in chaos, for weeks after weeks,
It's about your granny knitting your sweater,
your little brother writing his letter to Santa Claus
about charades leaving you in stitches,
roast turkey making you burst your britches,
those minced pies, the mulled wine,
that stuffing so divine,
that's what Christmas is about.
It's not about those flashing lights,
high above,
craving love,
on repeat,
in the street
screaming for your attention,
it's not about those trees dancing for your adoration,
red, yellow in decoration,
ball ball wrapped,
tinsel trapped,
holding up the whole world by their fingertips,
with a star crowning their heads,
it's about your mum and dad,
giving you what they never had,
going through hell,
making your wishes come true,
where the priority is always you,
sure they'll play the fool, hop on one leg,
steal, borrow and beg,
dance and sing,
because you are their everything
that's what Christmas is about.
It's not about those blunders,
those one-hit wonders,
blaring out the radio,
oh, God, no
not about Wizzard, Slade, or Santa coming to town,
it's about that family that will never let you down,
that will make you smile,
remind you it's all worthwhile,
where their laughter is the best music
That's what Christmas is about
It's not that laptop slashed to half-price,
that bustling crowd, roaring aloud,
for that next sale,
stampeding without fail for that 4k TV,
that blue-ray DVD,
it's about that family that makes you happy,
and yeah that sounds sappy and just a bit crappy,
but who cares?
It's a cliche,
but what else can I say?
You can't put a price on your family
That's what Christmas is about.
It's not about working to the bone,
feeling alone,
from that stress,
from that boss you're trying to impress,
for that bonus,
so you can go home as a hero,
because you already are one
to that family you're fighting for
That's what Christmas is about.
Click here to see me read out this poem
fluttering down,
coating the ground,
spreading all around,
to become crushed,
turned into mush.
It's not about runny noses, red cheeks,
transport in chaos, for weeks after weeks,
It's about your granny knitting your sweater,
your little brother writing his letter to Santa Claus
about charades leaving you in stitches,
roast turkey making you burst your britches,
those minced pies, the mulled wine,
that stuffing so divine,
that's what Christmas is about.
It's not about those flashing lights,
high above,
craving love,
on repeat,
in the street
screaming for your attention,
it's not about those trees dancing for your adoration,
red, yellow in decoration,
ball ball wrapped,
tinsel trapped,
holding up the whole world by their fingertips,
with a star crowning their heads,
it's about your mum and dad,
giving you what they never had,
going through hell,
making your wishes come true,
where the priority is always you,
sure they'll play the fool, hop on one leg,
steal, borrow and beg,
dance and sing,
because you are their everything
that's what Christmas is about.
It's not about those blunders,
those one-hit wonders,
blaring out the radio,
oh, God, no
not about Wizzard, Slade, or Santa coming to town,
it's about that family that will never let you down,
that will make you smile,
remind you it's all worthwhile,
where their laughter is the best music
That's what Christmas is about
It's not that laptop slashed to half-price,
that bustling crowd, roaring aloud,
for that next sale,
stampeding without fail for that 4k TV,
that blue-ray DVD,
it's about that family that makes you happy,
and yeah that sounds sappy and just a bit crappy,
but who cares?
It's a cliche,
but what else can I say?
You can't put a price on your family
That's what Christmas is about.
It's not about working to the bone,
feeling alone,
from that stress,
from that boss you're trying to impress,
for that bonus,
so you can go home as a hero,
because you already are one
to that family you're fighting for
That's what Christmas is about.
Click here to see me read out this poem
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