I ran into the street
Like an elephant skating on ice,
And darted across the road
Screaming: “Ooh, isn’t it nice!
They’re doing it in there!
They’re both completely bare!”
It really was a thrill
- So much so that I ran home to write my will,
Strangely believing that someone was going to kill
Me later on that night.

I never made it home though - I got into a fight:
I saw my own shadow, cast by a street light,
So I started to punch and scream and kick.
I tripped myself onto the floor,
Landing in a pile of someone else’s sick,
Which splashed up all over my face,
And up my nose and in my ears;
It smelled disgusting, my eyes were full of tears,
So I just lay on my back and started to moan:
“Thank God it’s Christmas and I’m all alone,
I’m covered in puke and I’ve hurt my head,
Thank God it’s Christmas, I wish I was dead!”

And thus I spent my Christmas Eve
Alone and pungent on the path,
Babbling like a crazed giraffe.
The memory of it haunts me still,
And wakes me up screaming: “I feel so ill!”
Now, at Christmas, I don’t go out.
I say: “It’ll never happen again.
I’ll go to bed at nine or ten,
And then I’ll sleep for one whole week,
And in that time I shall not speak.
Only in this way can I be sure
That of my bad memories I’ll create no more.”

I now spend every Christmas in bed,
Alone and silent, hardly moving.
I find the nothingness dull but soothing,
And though you may find my story particularly sad,
I say to you that it’s not so bad:
A little awful, maybe, and it drives me slightly round the bend,
But it’s only Christmas, the year’s tragic end.


© 2000 Matt Everett