23/12/2024
Issue Six - Is It About My Cube? -
‘Twas the night before Rookmas and all through the bar
Not a creature was stirring, not near nor afar.
The fridges were off, the lights turned down low,
The stockings lined up by the taps in a row.
And down in the cellar, nestled in bed,
The Rook staff all slept, dreams of booze filled their heads.
And deep in our sleep, sans a snort or a snore,
I was startled awake by a knock at the door!
I crept up the stairs, my gown wrapped round tight,
Bracing myself for a heart-stopping fright.
For who, at this time, could be waiting outside?
Who might come and wake us at night this Yuletide?
And who did I spy, through the frosted up glass?
A sleigh, a red coat, a white beard, on Rookmas!
I unlocked the door and he hurried inside.
The big man himself! “Santa!” I cried!
He put down his sack and he stretched out his legs
“I did try the chimney, it’s closed,” Santa said.
He pulled out some presents, stuck them under the tree.
He scoffed a few pies that I’d left there for he.
And as he was leaving, he stopped for a mo’.
“You know, while I’m here, I’ll take one for the road.”
I tried to discourage, “You’re driving a sleigh!”
“The reindeer do most of the work,” he did say.
“I’m really not sure, I could get into trouble.”
Then Santa got mad and his size seemed to double.
“I’m already nine-hundred and eight brandies down,
Look in my eyes, am I drunk? Serve me now.”
“Do you know who I am?” (he was slurring his words),
“I’m bloody St. Nick. At least give me a third!”
I shook my head, firm, “Sorry, no can do.”
He fumed at me, “I’m gonna leave a review.”
And before Santa left, he had one more thing.
He rummaged around in his bag for a min’.
He took out his files and he placed them before me,
Crossed my name off the nice list and wrote it on naughty.
Alone I was left, I wanted to cry.
They say “don’t meet your heroes” and now I knew why.
I needed a drink, something tasty and heavy.
Something to distract, something that tastes merry!
I watched the dark liquid pour from the tube,
An impy by Pentrich, Is It About My Cube?
It’s chocolate, marshmallow, eleven percent.
A s’more pastry stout, it was money well spent.
Honourable M