I remember a time
Back when our innocence was Christmas
And love was Christmas
And peace was Christmas
And Joy was Christmas
Today I cancelled a haircut
I cancelled a haircut because I’m living on the bones of my arse
And I don’t want my child to wake up to no presents
I don’t want his pile of pleasure to be meagre and sparse
And the sense of pride I felt walking out of the toy shop
With 2 bags of toys and hair looking like crap
When I’m caught in the commercialism of our days
Caught in the have, have, have, not need, trap.
Like a vulture lurking over a dying breed
Like a human possessed by consumer greed.
Today I went to the cashpoint
And took out my last fifty pounds
Hoping my child tax credit will stop me making the cash convertors rounds
And being a mother, I always come last
And being a widow, I wear a happy mask
And where are the presents for me?
But I am so used to being the invisible recipient
I only get the gifts that come free
The ones you cannot see.
And that is ok
Today I put up the tree
A bargain from the pop up Christmas shop
Looks like shit but once the gaudy baubles hide
Its anorexic branches, once the lights are twinkling
Then the cheap as shit look will stop.
And it stands there proudly
As proud as any rich bitch tree
A symbol of years of austerity
But I don’t care
My tree says I have tried
I have really tried
Money is nice, it buys things
It buys things
But I remember when simplicity was Christmas
I remember when gratefulness was Christmas
I remember when asking for nothing was Christmas
And I wonder where did it all go horribly wrong
When did the world start singing this god awful consumerist song?
©2019 Sarah Drury
I know I haven’t always been a good girl
But please give me a bleedin’ break
I don’t ask for much, but every woman has her desires
For goodness sake.
I run myself ragged, day in, day out
Autism mum first and foremost
Harassed bitchface, mardy cow
There are days when I don’t even know how
The women in Syria even survive
When I can’t even deal with a meltdown
When the depression dances and the anxiety thrives.
But I have been good most of the time
Even if I have overdone the chocolate treats.
My ass would plead to be freed from the deed
Of ride a cock horse and demolish your steed
And my belly which rhymes with jelly and looks like
A sugar laden simile.
I know I am not the smallest
But Santa, let’s be having none of that bloody
Weight loss guilt trip stuff on the telly.
And don’t be bringing me
Vibrators made of metal alloys.
Or tinsel nipple tassles
As the latter will be more like toenail ticklers
And it’s not even worth the hassle.
And let’s leave the pretentious cook books out of the picture
The only things getting cooked around here
Are microwave chips, ready meals from Iceland
And pie in the sky dreams of winning the lotto and getting richer.
Mary Berry’s probably a nice lady
But baking Tirimasu isn’t part of my criteria
So she can piss right off and peddle her fancy treats in fucking Siberia.
Maybe the polar bears have a penchant for pavlova
And maybe the Great British Bake Off’s just a load of middle class hysteria.
Santa, I don’t get much time to myself
So if you have a supernanny in your sack
Not your sack in a nanny
Then please release my lack of peace
And grant me the odd night with my fabulosa friends
To feast, to go ‘on the piste’
To be a woman on a mission with a glass full of brandy
And a nice plate of veggie curry would come in handy
And a bit of pissed up karaoke would be fine and dandy.
I like a bit of mic
I like to hog the limelight.
And I don’t want to be a selfish bitch, Santa
But I don’t suppose you have a spare MacBook or iPhone?
I know I shouldn’t ask
But when you’re a single mum and on your own
And you spend the nights surfing the web
Drinking in the likes on Facebook
Like a hungry dog licks on a bone.
Nights dripping in poetry, weaving wise words,
Reaching out to the world yet feeling fucking alone
You like to fiddle and twiddle and let your fingers skadiddle
You like to build with your words a metaphoric home
I’ll leave it up to decide if I’ve made your good girl list.
Leave out the mistletoe or you’ll be kissed with my fist!
©2019 Sarah Drury