Taffy was a Welshman,
Taffy was a thief;
Taffy came to my house
And stole a piece of beef.
I should mention in
the interest
Of political
correctness
That not all Welshmen
Are called taffy
And not all Welshmen
Are thieves or indeed
Have a liking for
someone else’s beef.
But this particular
Welshman
In the 18th Century
Nursery Rhyme
Was indeed called
taffy
And he was a thieving
bastard
“Taffy was a Welshman
was an actual nursery rhyme
Popularised in the 18th
Century, so don’t blame me”
Foghorn Leghorn didn’t like to go out
It made his heartbeat
quicken
So, he wouldn’t even
cross the road
Because he was a chicken
When you’re only browsing
In a department store
Five different salespeople
Sometimes even more
Pestering and prying
and
Asking if they can
assist you
But when you need a one
There’s never one in
view
Are you wearing Xmas stockings?
With a holly wreath
motif
Along those long
festive garlands
How I wish to trace
each leaf
Along each luscious
limber leg
An ascent exquisitely
brief
To reach the Christmas
gift
Beyond the holly
wreath motif
I don’t like the shortened form
Of Christmas, it’s not
quaint
I dislike it because
Xmas sounds
Like some kind of skin
complaint
Don’t look backwards, merely
Half-heartedly and
insincerely
Remember those
Christmas’s clearly
And remember the
people dearly
When you are in a long-term relationship
On Birthdays,
Valentines, and Anniversaries
Your normally rational
other halves
Turn into fire
breathing adversaries
And those once happy
and joyous occasions
Become life and death
quests to test us
To see if we can find
the perfect present
And that goes double
for Christmas
