Christmas Poetry Competition
Firstly, thank you to all who entered the competitions and all those of you who submitted a vote. The voting was fierce but, in the end, the winners of both sections won by a significant margin. So, without further ado, here are those winning poems!
The Christmas Prose and Poetry Winner is:
What is Christmas? by scorpio_witch
The stores are 'a-glitter' with globes so bright,
They cheer you on a gloomy night.
So tempting are the things to try,
It's almost certain too much you'll buy.
Where tinsel and baubles galore abound,
Wrappings and cards in abundance are found.
With trees from one to six feet tall,
To put on a table or stand in the hall.
And presents! Wow, the array so vast,
'Let's have your money' — the die is cast.
We spend and spend without a thought,
Then tomorrow comes, and we'll have naught.
The children, how their faces glow,
They really, really, want to know,
The little girls and little boys,
Are they to get the longed-for toys?
Will Santa come if they are good?
And down the chimney — if he could
Bring all their favourites inside
The house, for Mum and Dad to hide.
We must put out a pie and sherry,
To make the old chap good and merry.
A carrot for the reindeer too,
They need to have a prize to chew.
Should we have turkey or maybe goose?
It's sometimes difficult to choose.
Then Christmas pudding and trifle too,
Is that what Christmas means to you?
Perhaps it's time to stop and think,
As we sit down with that next drink,
About the reason for Christmas-time,
As all the church bells start to chime.
Shall you be going to Midnight Mass?
Or would that make you feel too crass?
The Christ child in the manger laid,
Who gave his life, not unafraid.
But what of those who, unlike me,
Don't hold with Christianity?
What of those living on the street,
Who will not get a Christmas treat?
What of the others far and wide,
Who have to fight, or run and hide.
Explain what the Christ child means to them,
On the war-torn streets of Bethlehem!
The Vogon Christmas Winner is:
Christmas Gives Me Gastric Ulcers by Clive the Flying Ostrich
Loathsome piss giblets: not snow ever once I seen.
Rancour feeble mutterings of wrinkled regina.
Balding tinsel falling off listing plastic fire-hazard.
Burnt offerings and suspect sherry make my tummy gurgle something awful.
What's on telly — bugger all.
and no-more aftereight mints.
Miserable tidings to the lot ern' yer.
I'm going back to bed.