Heather: A poem for Christmas dinner

I’ve recently joined the student Creative Writing Society at Anglia Ruskin, and here’s one of my festive efforts.

Christmas Dinner

Did you bring the fois gras and the chestnuts and the sauce?

I didn’t have time, but I brought another course.

On the way here I took out a horse, in my car

You see, black ice on the roads and I’d been to the bar,

Early I know but it’s Christmas morn,

I did honk but it didn’t hear the horn.

But that’s a small bag for a horse, is it just the head?

No, the rider flipped me off so I brought him instead.

Jockey pate, a delicacy I’ve heard,

With Melba toast and the brains blitzed to curd,

And for the traditionalists I’ve our regular grub,

Consommé of the new guy down at the club.

That lot should serve fine, as an aperitif,

Jockeys aren’t widely known for their beef.

I thought you’d say that so I nipped down the road,

And bagged me that smart arse Mr McGoad,

He’ll be an acquired taste as he’s nouveau riche,

But with plenty of goat’s cheese he’ll make a nice quiche.


The main course is next, that was your job my dear,

I hope you planned ahead, unlike last year.

Well, there weren’t any turkeys left in the store,

But we found this Swedish bloke by the door.

We can peel him and put him on to boil,

Or steam him with veg and drizzle him with oil,

Tie him tightly with string on a bed of tin foil,

Roast him proper, grill him, toast him,

Smother him in lard, put an apple in his mouth,

Crisp up the stuffing and serve him with sprouts.

That’s not nearly enough, this is Christmas you cretins,

We haven’t any carrots or parsnips to put in.

We’ll use fingers instead, they’re almost the same,

Wrapped up in bacon, they’ll top off the main,

With cranberry sauce and gravy and mustard,

And what the hell, it’s Christmas, we’ll even have custard.


If you say so darling, though I’ll leave the cooking to you,

Now for pud, something sweet, like philosopher stew.

That was your job Mel, did you have any luck?

It was snowing out so I decided I didn’t give a

A fig. Figgy pudding? No figgy pudding won’t do,

We need mince pies, gingerbread and brandy snaps too.

I’m only joking, I wouldn’t let you down,

I went to the old folks’ home in town,

It was like plucking prunes straight off the tree,

Instead of making one pudding, I made three.

I made mincemeat of the spleens and soused the hearts

And ground up the bones and that’s just to start.

I rolled the flesh into truffles with plenty of grease,

And battered the kidneys with crème de cassis.

But brandy sauce is passé, gelato’s the best,

So I dry iced the blood and the eyes of our guests.

It’s a perfect end to a delightful feast,

Cousin Mel’s a genius at the very least.

Someone fetch the Bailey’s, someone mull the wine,

Stoke up the fire with those French hens of mine,

I’ll nog the eggs and whip the cream,

Let’s get stuck in or we’ll miss the Queen!

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