Everyone knows Christmas Cake
but, I have got a hunch
That you've never heard the story
of Mike Fields Christmas Punch

Whenever there's a party
for Christmas or the like
A punch is always needed
And we call...Uncle Mike

It's a family tradition
It's Mike Fields secret brew
Like Mrs. Fogarty's Christmas Cake
This one's a killer too

It was Christmas Eve in London
The house was open to the street
We were celebrating Christmas
Sharing drinks with all we'd meet

The fridge was full of foodstuff
No more room for beer to go
When Mike in all his glory
Said "Let's put it in the snow"

So, laundry baskets gathered
We filled them to the top
It only took an hour
Before we heard them start to pop

Brown snow was in the basket
The beer had all blown to hell
But, Mike was not discouraged
And, it's this that rung a bell

Mike stood inside the kitchen
Looking for a bowl for punch
when he spied one on the counter
That we'd just used for our lunch

"Pat", he said, "don't worry"
"I know exactly what to do"
"I'm going to make an English Punch"
And he created witches brew

Like a mad doctor all frazzled
Mike quickly set about his task
With bottles full of god knows what
And no one sure was gonna ask

A bit of this, a splash of that
Some ***** and some juice
Some ginger ale, an orange twist
All were poured into his sluice

Every bottle he could muster
Were emptied in the bowl
To make a special Christmas Punch
That was Uncle Mike's new goal

Cranberries and almonds
Milk, champagne and then some ice
Some fruit juice and an olive
This would make it all taste nice

The spoon was spinning solo
Foam was pouring out the side
I wasn't sure about it
but, I was coming for the ride

Mike poured it into goblets
Paper cups would not survive
this brew was so ferocious
One drink and you won't drive

To add a little garnish
He put some orange slices in
They were already four days old
In fact, he pulled them from the bin

The room was a disaster
But the punch was a success
It was going to take a fortnight
To clean up all the mess

We drank the punch that Christmas
With the gusto it deserverd
To me it was the finest
Christmas punch that has been served

The recipe does not exist
It will never be the same
And the punch we had that Christmas
Doesn't even have a name

It was Michael Field concoction
That made that night one for the books
With a bowl of steaming, foaming punch
That garnered some strange looks

The next morning at clean up
We went to wash the bowl
And there on our back counter
Was nothing...but a hole

The punch had done a number
Eaten through the fruit and dish
and the smell left by the remnants
Made you think of rotting fish

It ate away the orange
Left the rind, disolved the fruit
Whether the punch was healthy for you
Well, that question was now moot

It was a punch beyond description
It was a punch, I know you'd like
It was served for just one Christmas
By our madman, Uncle Mike!

To Lose Everything and Die for it


Punch me know how it feels how it goes away too soon like its memory holding the pull of time holding out for something punch me in the guts how is it feels like pool of blood pressure lowing it feels like pool of blood holding a pitch in decay decades of forlorn expulsion of punch list of items in the guts free to call pulling me out of time call the feels like pool of blood holding a punch me know how it goes away too soon golden hours on methadone climbing and scoring a high from the closest thing to blood pressure lowing the punch me know how it feels holding on to the feeling like blood spilt on a pool of soil golden brown hasish found in my pocket and two years after that hit me in the guts feel how it goes holding a pitch and putt goal in mind to star in my own golden hours brow beaten path to gold punch me know how it feels
Holding up the rush of running to nothing a globe holding on to it like how is it feels golden blood pressure lowing the punch me in the guts how are we feeling blood holding up the acolyte it goes away too soon punch me know what you are missing golden hours on methadone climbing and closing gate to star in my own and operate a higher level than God holding on to nothing is happening fast as you running away from too soon punch me know when it comes to blood pressure lowering your thoughts down to memory card punch in the head all gone to her head now holding on my way to freedom of memory cells broken and missing like chemical reaction to antidepressants is so sad down in the morning and in my night time memory punch in the morning and night at golden hours blood pressure lowering your price list for closing gate to freedom blood golden brown hasish found in my pocket with the ticket to hell never gone through the whole day without your consent format time it moves around universe floating around your body slowing growth and you feel like punch me know how it feels like pool going too soon holding the pull out of your life holding the baby of love despite the gate to freedom of golden hours on methadone climbing and scoring a high good byeall gone to her head now holding on my way to freedom of memory cells broken and missing like chemical reaction to antidepressants is so sad down in the morning and in my night time memory punch in the morning and night at golden hours blood pressure lowering your price list for closing gate to time
it moves around universe floating around your body slowing growth and you feel like punch me know how it feels like pool going too soon holding the pull out of your life holding the baby of love despite the gate to freedom of golden hours on methadone climbing and scoring a high good bye