Today’s poem

BAH, HUMBUG!

I’m an artificial Christmas

tree, my life just isn’t fun, I’m up here in the attic where

you never see the sun. Wrapped up in a bin liner for

50 weeks a year Because a boozy family want a fortnight’s Christmas cheer. You might say I’m grumpy,

I’ve a right to moan, Apart from an old suitcase,

I’m up here on my own. I hate that blooming

suitcase...all it does is brag, He gets two weeks in Majorca . . . I’m stuck in this black bag. I’ve never seen a sunrise on

a lovely summer’s day, Never seen a sunset in the

merry month of May. Never seen a nightingale,

penguin or a puffin, The only bird I’ve ever seen

was full of Paxo stuffing. When it’s halfway through December, Father crawls home from the pub, I’m dragged down from the

attic and dumped into a tub. My branches are all straightened out, I’m daubed in mistletoe, Tinsel, and glass baubles, and

fairy lights that glow. When Mother’s in the kitchen

preparing Christmas grub, Their blooming rotten tom

cat has a wee wee in my tub! Their dog keeps sniffing round my roots, my trunk gets very soggy, I can tolerate that yapping dog, I just can’t stand that moggie. There’s a snobbish little fairy, with silver wings held high, Sellotaped to my top branch,

and you wonder why I cry! I’m weighed down with loads of presents, most of them are junk, Those rotten kids all laugh

at me — I’m dressed up like a punk. The fairy lights get on my

nerves, flashing off and on, ‘Merry Christmas everyone!’

— what a blooming con! So Bah Humbug! to Christmas, and to the New Year, too, I like the old Scrooge best of

all, so Bah Humbug! to you. I’m an artificial Christmas

tree, seeking my revenge. Just you wait till Christmas Day

my tormentors I’ll avenge. When the fairy lights are switched on, I’ll fall over on the mat, Smash those rotten presents; the kids will blame the cat!

Les Singfield, Llangefni, Anglesey.