Christmas smelt of coal when I was very small,
Curled beneath the eiderdown, light flickered on the wall.
A tealight by the bedside, insurance just in case.
On Christmas eve, a certain hope to catch sight of his face.
Christmas smelt of sausage rolls, upon a Christmas Eve.
When it was dark and candles lit, their festive scent I’d breathe
For that was when the night began, and he’d be here quite soon.
A bell, a thump, a cloud of smoke; inside the living room.
I’d picture him amongst the stars, a map within his hands.
He’d plan his route and plot the houses chimneys in each land
But now I think he may have found a warehouse in each town,
And make TV appearances when funds are running down.
His cheeky rounded cheeks and his bristly fluffy beard,
His soft and round red tummy, never changing year on year.
In my childhood, Santa had no socks from Tk Maxx,
He didn’t carry ipads and hair straighteners in his sacks.
He took delight in filling socks with oranges and sweeties.
And no-one mentioned tooth decay or early diabetes!
He ate enough mince pies to keep weightwatchers very rich,
But I could never see, his tummy pop a single stitch.
And if he drank the little whiskey on each little plate
Would Santa not be very drunk? Or least of all quite late?
Would he not muddle every present on each waiting hearth?
Creating chaos in his fluster. That would make me laugh.!
He’d maybe just decide to see the ones who saw him too.
For magic only happens if you first believe in you.
However, he still does it, whether Amazon or sleigh
And even if you’re always grinchy, park it for the day.
Nothing truly wonderful can ever be explained.
Santa is who Santa is, and lives in all our brains.
Hang your hat on someone good, you might just be surprised,
And one day you’ll wake up to find a bite from your mince pie.