A festive trilogy in red and green and silver parts 1 to 3:

There’s no radical vegetarian agenda here, I’ll be having the full works the same as most everyone else. When this was written around this time last year, or a bit before, this is the space I found my head in.

Thoroughly festive. And full of cheer, as it always is.

 

A festive trilogy in red and green and silver parts 1 to 3:

Part 2. Gulp! A poultry apocalypse.

(Or Bright Eye’s with brussels). (December ’15)

 

And the turkeys are all on diets,

But they’re not in sympathy with Santa,

Their quest for weight loss is starker,

Much darker than fake celebrity freaks,

For it speaks of losing beaks and feathers,

 

With them holidays are not welcome,

And no factor fifty can ever help them,

Standing in shade won’t be an aid,

In their parade of feathered doom,

In their tinselled festival of gloom,

 

So the turkeys sit anxiously on schemes,

Hoping to hatch their great escape dreams,

Striving to rise above the ducks and lesser breeds,

But the blade spares no one, even those who think their better,

No duck nor turkey will outlive the Christmas sweater,

 

They’ll join the rest and be nicely dressed,

And buried with full honours all at sea,

Beneath the gravy, next to the stuffing and the peas,

As a 21 cracker salute accompanies,

The rending of their flesh from their birthday suit.

 

(c) Jim Laing 2015.

 

 Original 2014 version:

 

  1. Gulp! A poultry apocalypse.

(Or Bright Eye’s with brussels). (December ’14)

 

And the turkeys are all on diets,

But they’re not in sympathy with Santa,

Their quest for weight loss is starker,

Much darker than fake celebrity freaks,

For it speaks of losing beaks and feathers,

 

With them holidays are not welcome,

And no factor fifty can ever help them,

Standing in shade won’t be an aid,

In their parade of feathered doom,

In their tinselled festival of gloom,

 

So the poultry sit anxiously on schemes,

Hoping to hatch their great escape dreams,

The black hatchet never drops as fast,

As the speed of their hopes receding into the past,

Who’d wanna hatch an egg into this world anyway,

 

The better turkeys know to blame the ducks,

Who steal the feed for their own breed,

But short sight won’t save them from decapitation,

The blade spares no one even those who think their better,

No duck nor turkey will outlive the Christmas sweater,

 

They’ll join the rest and be nicely dressed,

And buried with full honours all at sea,

Beneath the gravy next to the stuffing and the peas,

As a 21 cracker salute accompanies,

The rending of their flesh from their birthday suit.

 

(c) Jim Laing 2014.

 

Outtakes:

 

Patronised by an old witch at three,

And masticated by sheep sat next to the tree,

 

After all these pond dwellers aren’t like them,

 

As poultry sits on schemes waiting for plots to hatch,

 

Seem their weight never falls so fast as their hopes drop,

The poultry try to hatch some scheme or plan,

Instead of eggs they try to hatch plans and schemes,

Instead of eggs they try to hatch plans and schemes,

Who’d hatch an egg into this world anyway,

 

They hope that something or someone

Will break in and give them a helping hand,

 

They hold together firm this turkey nation,

 

The corn is tasting really sweet,

Advertisements

About Jim Laing

The Buddha said there were four kinds of people. Those who run from dark to dark, those who run from light to dark, those who run from dark to light and those who run from light to light. From a life going from dark to dark to having a few years running from dark to light, with scuffed hands and knees from sometimes falling, I may be getting the hang of it now. How it began is not now how it is, I need a quiet space, After the noise of the day, So I take sanctuary in the creativity, And my soul feeds, On sometimes dark, Sometimes light fantasy, And I dare like many to work, But stay up off my knees, To dream, perchance to suffer, But always still to dream. Here are things mostly lyrical and poetic, with nonsense sometimes, reviews and personal musings. The coffees hot and always black. The words not necessarily so.
This entry was posted in Lyrics & poems and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.