Old Year on last legs staggers slowly towards midnight,
Memories in our pockets are like butterflies and stones,
A deep dark lake of forgetfulness swallows the stones,
Some sink deep, others shallow, a source of pain again,
Butterflies now free lift our spirits in a tapestry of colour,
Flying high on past pleasures and treasured moments,
New Year born in a carnival of gluhwein and pink pigs.

Can you win the Christmas you've dreamed of?
hmm, if so
when did they make that legal
ha,
only blowing smoke from the laughter tree
I dream certificate 15 or
the board of censors would penalise me.

The after effects of Covid

7pm and I'm ready for bed
my tongue tastes like sawdust
my feet feel like lead,
it's shameful and
even poor Teddy is burying his head.

ha again,
in two weeks it's Crimbo
watch me go then.

It's all relative
says Einstein
****** on the
gluhwein

I'm saving myself for mince pies.