In summer we wouldn't give tuppence
to don funny hats and be chums,
but at Christmas-time comes our come-uppance
and a punishing ton of the glums.
Though we're sunnily happy asunder,
together we're lacking in fun;
but we put a brave face on, and plunder
a larder we'd usually shun.
Come mongrels, come strumpets, come mothers
like a coven of hungry ex-nuns;
come uncles, come common-law brothers,
come relative Vandals and Huns;
come, little bastards, and cluster
while stuffing those gluttonous guts;
munch all the mince pies you can muster
or guzzle a trugful of nuts.
Come, puppets, and coddle that tummy!
Bust all of your buttons but one!
If the Brussels appear less than scrummy
and the numbles are too underdone,
take no huff, take no umbrage, but mumble
a succulent punnet of plums
or gobble the flummery crumble
while Granny exhibits her gums.
A toast! Raise your tumblers of bubbles
get up off your upper-class bums,
you plug-uglies and frumps, sink your troubles,
drink bumpers to overwrought mums.
In your cups you may blow your own trumpets;
you may pig on a puree of puns,
you may comfort yourselves with more comfits
till your gusto succumbs to the runs.
All fingers and thumbs, you may splutter,
then slump in a hubbub of crumbs
and deafly and dumbly, completely and utter-
ly slumber till suppertime comes.
