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!

All work, no play and neon screens
menial tasks even coat my dreams.
Overboard in bored and a silent phone,
oh no, I think I’ve evolved to drone.

Punch in, punch out, this is the wrong route.
Punch in, punch out, a life of drought.
This technological terror
has caused life to flash in error.
For lady dollar; I can’t bear her,
as the riches are even rarer.

I’ve become a machine, to crush numbers
with no log off for needed slumbers.
Now my brain’s racing, a million miles per hour,
oh no, I think I’ve gained A.I’s power.

Punch in, punch out, this is the wrong route.
Punch in, punch out, now what life is about.
This technological terror
has caused life to flash in error.
No sudden movements; don’t want to scare her,
she’s updating with no carer.

Learning binary,
a breathing library,
processing slowly
but still a finery.

I forgot what my hands were for
they used to write all that I adore.
Now fingertips type, each key a shot,
oh no, I think I’ve grown into a robot.

Punch in, punch out, this is the wrong route.
Punch in, punch out, no one hears me shout.
This technological terror
has caused life to flash in error.
Pure absorption; a simple stare,
life’s equation could be fairer.

Learning binary,
a breathing library,
walking geometry
complete machinery.

(Punch is playing the violin. Judy is on the couch, listening patiently. After some time, Punch stops playing and he speaks...)*


Punch:
Oh, Judy...life's so divine
for me
since I bought this
my first violin
two days ago...

Judy:
For me too, Punch...
Life's not been the same
since you brought the violin home...

Punch:
But oh, Judy - how's
my playing?
Two days I've played
making music -
and how good it is
you've not said!

Judy:
Oh Punch -
you should play on TV!

Punch:
Oh Judy - why, thank you...
Am I so good, darling?

Judy:
No, sweetie
- it's just that
if you were on TV
I could turn off the ****** thing!

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

(Punch comes home. Judy, his wife, kisses him and asks about his day.)*


Judy:
How was your day at work , darl?

Punch:
Not a good day, sweetie…

Judy:
And why was that, Punch?

Punch:
Oh, the Boss is just overbearing

Judy:
What did he do this time, sweetie?


Punch:
Oh well, he comes in to my table
this morning, right,
and he asks me: “Punch, do you believe
in the after-life?”
An odd question to ask, you’d agree…
Anyway I say: “I do, Mr Blake –
I do believe in the after-life.”
And he says: “Oh, I’m glad you do…”
And he continues:
“Yesterday you asked to go home at noon
You said your grandpa died
And guess what? – 4 hours after you left
a man claiming to be your grandpa
came here looking for you
Said he was in in the vicinity
and he might walk home back with you
There’s sure such a thing as after-life, Punch!”

And all day Mr Blake was having a go at me about ghosts
And all my colleagues too, they were going: “BOO!”
at every chance they got…
Oh, what an embarrassing day…


Judy:
Oh, so you lied to get a half-day off, Punch?
And where were you?
You didn’t come home early yesterday…
Doesn’t look like your day is over, Punch…
Certainly not a good day!

(Punch comes home after work. Judy kisses him and welcomes him back home.)*

Judy:
So how was your day at work, sweetie?

Punch:
Oh that old Boss is always making life tough for me...

Judy:
Oh Punch...what happened?

Punch:
Oh Judy, I went in this morning
30 past the time I was supposed
to be in at work –
OK, I was late, but is that a big thing really? –
and anyway the Boss is at the main entrance
and he sees me come in late
and he says ever so slyly:
“Punch – do you know you are late? ”
And I says to him: “Yes, Mr Blake”
And he says to me:
“And Punch – do you know
That’s the fifth time you’ve been late to work
this week? ”
And I says to the Boss:
“Yes, Mr Blake…”
And the Boss looks at me and he says:
“Fifth time in the week, Punch…
Do you know what that means? ”
And I says:
“Fifth time in the week?
So it’s Friday, Mr Blake? ”

Judy:
Oh Punch - what a silly Boss you've got.
Why doesn't he just check
the calendar if he wants
to know the day or date?

Prologue
see, do you see?
Judy and Punch
are shopping
Like the loving couple they are
they are at it together

Action!
Punch puts in a carton of beer
into the trolley
And Judy hauls it out immediately
and puts it back on the shelf –
It’s too expensive, honey
says Judy.  $50 a carton, that’s too much money


Now Judy is in the “Beauty” section
and picks a Beauty Pack for $100
and Punch protests immediately:
That’s what’s too much money!

Oh, but you do want
me to look beautiful, darling –
don’t you? says Judy, with a smile

Yeah, sweetheart,
but half the price
would have done the trick!
says Punch, with a counter-smile


Epilogue**
Now, what do you think
happens after Punch’s punch line?
Do you think Judy makes
the literal and the metaphorical merge?
Are the stars Punch sees literal
or figurative, you think?

i'd really like to punch Roger Boyes in the face... that kind of therapy talk akin to Fight Club... i'd really love to punch Roger Boyes' smile off...  can't stress how much i'd like to punch his face, simply to add the mascara of plum with that grin of his... i'll say it one more time for the therapeutic reasons, akin to 1916 and northern irish zombies; god, i'd love to punch that man into a Picasso.

why... the pristine supposed involvement of
Colonel Kentucky in Syria...
leave them to it! your opinions are just invests in war,
look at you, cooked-up in a semi-detached
in Warwickshire... i'm sure the select journalists
ageing have moved from the column to
the opinion section, because they are *proper
bulldog bred to choke a Belgian waffle
and *****-up a moth for a tartan pattern;
******* in the Caribbean - pilot features added
to the wingspan about what i wouldn't integrate into
even if Dickens or Shakespeare was an ice cream moment
of melting into a society... honey pooh...
you want the community experience?
abolish the strategy for urban areas and Greek-likened
free-city states... you want a community?
move to a village... no immigration will change
that demographic, village life means village life,
and villagers... and your neighbour's breakfast
on your table given the gossip at the hairdressers...
get a prim and the low-down;
that English, functioning atheism:
left hand (a-, the indefinite article) - and right hand
(the-, the definite article) - Kula Shaker'***** -
but i'd really love to punch Roger rather than Gandhi...
for Aleppo... i guess it's fun and morally pristine
to serve a comment along with oysters away
from the tabloid section of Loners of the newspaper,
a poet best dissects a newspaper -
did Cromwell ask for aid? Charles got the Chaplin
chop - Russia assured everyone, the support
of the Armstrong - because Colonel Kentucky and
every other entrepreneur of capitalism was not
part of bookmarking the last few pages of the Syrian
civil war... is that because no English civilians
knew the reality of war that Syrians concerned themselves
with? hence the punch for the journalist...
how about infiltrating a far-right perspective to counter
the spread of Jihad in Europe? being an island will
hardly help, as pseudo-****** said: now the channel
tunnel... let the tanks roll in.
England is under this fake impression that America
cares two-shots of whiskey three shakes of the dice
about its opinion... it doesn't...
America is pro-Israel.. England is quasi-pro but by
majority not wishing the Palestinians to experience
a 2000 year old Exodus... so here come the balaclavas
with black & white or red & white Houndstooth patterns.
still... i'd love to punch that Roger into a tombstone-flat-face.
leave them to it! it's a civil war! none of us
were ever Syrian civilians... we were civilians elsewhere...
in the green mint-fresh rolling hill countryside...
this isn't your son's Special Ops first-person shooter
on a computer screen... **** me... let the gym meat-heads
pump the iron... you a covert disciple of the diminishing
English high-street franchise... you know
that when a franchise begins to become turned FLAWED
it invests in adverts - capitalism's exposure comes
with advertisement, when a company is on the fault
line of bankruptcy or making profit, if decides on
an advertisement project, a crusade - to rekindle
public trust, i.e. naive handshakes all round.

Ya Know...
I've Found In This Life...
That... Girls And Guys...

Who Behave Like CHUMPS... !!!!!
Like To Play... Mitch Green...
And Beat Me To The PUNCH.... ?!!!?

When My Lyrical Flows...
Cause DAMAGE To Bones...
Like A Young... Roy Jones... !!!!!

Ya See They're CLEARLY BLIND...
And... OUT of Their Minds... !?!

To THINK That They Punch...
HARDER Than MY Lines.... !!!!

Lines... REFINED...
And Designed Through Rhyme...
To... Lyrically SHINE... !!!

And... KNOCK OUT Minds...
Whose Punch Is... light... !!!!

In FACT Their Stunts...
Come Like That DUCK... !!!!!

But Donald Gets *******... !!!
When My Lyrical... RUNS... !!!

Cos' Like Phasers It STUNS... !!!
When It Runs With Drums...
And Bass That Bumps...

Because It HITS...
Like.... Tysons' Fists.... !!!

So Punches BIG Frames...
... ALL OVER THE PLACE... !!!!

And Penetrates WAY...
ABOVE It's Weight... !!!!!!!

Cruiser To Bruiser...
Like... Heavyweights...
From ALI's Day Back To J J... !!!

That's Right... Jack Johnson...
Causing Heads PROBLEMS... !!!!!

Or Maybe Like Shavers...
Foreman Or... Frazier...

A... Body SMASHER...
When I Punch With MORE STATURE....
Than... Margaret Thatcher... !!!!!

That's Right I'm The Boss...
of... Krypton Factors... !!!

Punching With Matter...
That Leaves Heads SHATTERED... !!!!
Because of The PLATTER...
of Lyrics That... BATTER... !!!

Like... Tropical Storms... !!!!!
Because When I Punch...
I Punch Like A SWARM...
of Locusts SO POTENT...

That They FLY Like An OCEAN...
..... Up In THE SKY..... !!!!!

Can You... " Visualise "...
What That FEELS Like... ???

... Constantly POUNDED...
By Punches SURROUNDING...
And Constantly HOUNDING...
Fools Who Be DROWNING...

When I Get To Sounding...
My Views From HIGH MOUNTAINS... !!!

... Lyrically PEAKING...
With Punch That Has Meaning...
Beyond The Weak Leanings...
of Most Peoples' BLEATING... !!!!!!!

So Y'all Know The Score... !!!
A Lyrical War With Big Virge...
Means You'll... FALL... !!!

To A Place Where...
... Your Stunts....
Once and FOR ALL...

Are........ "hidden from view"...
And NOT SEEN ANYMORE... !!!!!

While My Punches FORCE...
People To... Applaud...

When You're Left On The Floor...
Trying To... " Crawl "... !!!!!

Like BERBICK' You're HURTING...
Having LOST When The War...
... DISLOCATED Your Jaw... !!!!!!!!!

My Punches Have PURPOSE... !!!
And Have People NERVOUS... !!!

Because They're Intention...
Is To Teach Those HARSH LESSONS...
To Heads Who Be STRESSING...

As Well As... Attempting...
To PROVE That They're TOUGH...
When They LACK The STUFF...

That Gives Them The STRENGTH...
That My Mental Presents... !!!

Because Just Like... NEO...
I'm The... " Lyrical ONE "... !!!

Whose Use of Verse STUNS... !!!

Because It Has....

.... " PUNCH ".... !!!!!

Punch was born the ideal child,
Blonde, blue-eyed, average size,
An average brain,
And a touch of the wild.
He had sibs, young and old,
He grew bold,
He was told
But never quite fit in.

Sports talk from the bench,
Smoke, drink and wayward ***
Had Punch desirious
Of what came next.
His family asked:
Why does he carry on so?
Success came easy
As his bronze tan,
Driving red hot rods,
With a blonde or two,
They were all the same.
Punch was liked
When he was tame.
How does he carry on so?
How can he carry on?
His golden hair has set now,
His blue eyes yet hard cold.
Now they call him
Paunch not Punch,
(but never to his face,
we give our Punch a break)
As gravity took its hold.
And Punch still carries on.
How he carries on.

It seems that every time
I get in trouble, it's my mouth
My brain is heading northward
While my mouth is heading south

You know when you say something
And the person's there...behind
That's me...daily
My mouth don't tell my mind

I'm the one who is the punching bag
I can't censor what I say
My mouth moves faster than
My brain, most every day
I tell a girl I want her
While she's holding someone's hand
And then I stand waiting for...
The first punch thrown to land

I never ever get a chance
To ever hit them back
It's over in a second
It's a one punch full attack

My mouth runs on a motor
That my brain just can not stop
I speak and then they hit me
It's ....over quickly...pop

I'm the one who is the punching bag
I can't censor what I say
My mouth moves faster than
My brain, most every day
I tell a girl I want her
While she's holding someone's hand
And then I stand waiting for...
The first punch thrown to land




I'm a punching bag most weekends
I just say what's in my head
I get knocked out so often
I'm surprised that I'm not dead

Most times, I hit on women
They're busy dancing with their guy
I got hit so much last summer
I thought I only had one eye


I'm the one who is the punching bag
I can't censor what I say
My mouth moves faster than
My brain, most every day
I tell a girl I want her
While she's holding someone's hand
And then I stand waiting for...
The first punch thrown to land

My mouth runs on a tangent
My mind is not as fast
I don't spend much cash drinking
My nights just do not last

I always end up battered
Never have a chance to see
The boyfriend or the husband
That went one punch with me