Dear me, Christina,
You mix with a very low class of Santa - those fake-rakes
who don the motley for the money, honey. Recommend you read 'Playing Father
McChristmas and Winning Three Nil', by Ivor Immanuel Tradesbody, Skulk
Press, 01, £9-99 ono.
Philipus
>From: Christina Fletcher <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Some Santas
>Date: Tue, 24 Dec 2002 06:42:48 EST
>
>
>
> Some Santas
>
>
> wear fake fur and felt hats.
> Pom-poms swing to the beep of Maris Pipers.
> Others refuse to play to the audience of shoppers.
>
> For who cares about Santas? Who gives a tinker's damn
> if there's a smile/no smile in a tinselled aisle,
>
> or if a child slips on a cranberry in the cathedral of
>crackers
> (unless it screams and scrapes the nerves)?
>
> If a star falls and splinters, or baubles break
> Santa will sweep and bin them with crushed satsumas
> and rancid brandy butter.
>
> Go late for reductions: see Santa's nails
> as she teases labels from wrappers -
>
> they stick to her skin.
>
>
>
>
>
>
> christina fletcher
>
>
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