12 Days… and no more!
Jessica Brady
On the first day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
A Partridge Wellington
With a wild mushroom and resin jelly
You’d think he’d have known
After all these years
That puff pastry makes me bloat
So I stuffed the pie into the pockets of my coat.
On the second day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Two turtle doves all serene and white
Alas, it was hunting season
And they were shot down on sight
And as they fell from the skies
I noticed that they were
Drones in disguise,
Locked and loaded and ready to fire
What was he thinking, I mused in my ire.
On the third day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Three French hens who spoke like Macron
Their message was clear though: your man’s breaking bad
Your true love is a traitor, he wants you to die
Why? I cried, tears in my eyes
They spilled the beans in elegant French
And advised me to head for the nearest trench.
On the fourth day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Four Calling Birds who popped
In to warn in advance:
He thinks he is clever, but in his haste to dispatch
He forgot that you are indeed a match
For his well-laid plans!
He thought we were dumb birds
He must never have heard
That birds of a feather flock together
Come, Sister, fly away with us to warmer weather.
On the fifth day of Christmas
Now dressed in battle gear
My machine gun all loaded and near
Surrounded by my feathered friends
I awaited what my true love today might send
And I saw Five Golden Rings
In a velvet lined box
Hey, this rocks!
He loves me after all!
They tutted and fluttered and made many a sound
To tell me in bird lingo that my mind was lost
And might never again be found
They picked up the box and dumped it in the sea
Where it caused a loud bang
That much frightened me.
On the sixth day of Christmas
My true love sent to me
Six geese a-laying
Victims of Avian Patriarchy
Waddling along with their heads held high
Looking to nest before their chicks were nigh
Angry now and full of feminist wrath
I invited them to my lake
To take a well-earned bath
To ease the pain between contractions
They were most grateful for the distraction
But indicated in tones of alarm
That their eggs were in fact hand grenades
And for me to stay calm
Slowly I moved them, step by step
Backwards from the pond
When geese go quiet you can hear the grass grow
They were silent and moved very slow
Their eggs now ticking down to zero.
On the seventh day of Christmas
I took a rest
Went to the Spa and chilled out in style
The hot tub was perfect and made me smile
Then, now perfectly Zen
On the horizon appeared
Eight maids a-milking, nine ladies dancing
Ten lords a-prancing, eleven pipers piping
Twelve drummers drumming and
A partridge on a pear tree.
My head was hurting from the din
There was no way I’d let them in
So without further ado and no more care
Lifting my machine gun and aiming low
(Avoiding the cows and partridge though)
I watched the assassins go down one by one
They fell were they stood
The cows mooed, the bagpipes squeaked
The partridge squawked
And then, at last
All was quiet in the ‘Hood.
Jessica Brady is a member of Inklings Writing Group, who meet on Tuesdays 11am and Wednesdays at 7.30pm in the Annebrook House Hotel.