EPIPHANY

Christmas with the Crooked Cats, our seasonal serving of poetry, short stories and non-fiction pieces, continues on Facebook until January 9th.  Thank you, dear readers, for all your support and kind words throughout this farrago of festivities and frolics.  You will doubtless be relieved to hear that this is my last contribution.

Today (January 6th) is traditionally the twelfth day of Christmas, and also the day when the Christmas tree is put away for another year.  

Christmas may be a time for giving, but some people - even with the very best of intentions - can go overboard with the gifts...

EPIPHANY

On the twelfth day of Christmas
it's time to put away the decorations, 
along with all the presents.

Twelve Drummers,
all making a terrible noise,
but it wasn’t quite loud enough to drown out

Twenty-two Pipers
(some with bagpipes, others with Pan Pipes,
and one weirdo dressed entirely in red and yellow)
all getting in the way of

Thirty Lords,
leaping around as though someone had laced their underpants with itching powder,
and chasing round after

Thirty-six Dancing Ladies.
One for each Lord,
plus six who seemed to prefer the company of

Forty Milkmaids,
each with her own highly-productive cow.
I don’t think the milkman will ever forgive me
for cancelling my daily order.
I used to be one of his best customers.

Forty-two Swans.
Goodness knows what I’m going to do with them.
They’re protected, aren’t they?
And don’t they all belong to the Crown?
I suppose I could always despatch them to Buckingham Palace
and let HM deal with them.

Forty-two Geese,
on the other hand,
all producing a regular supply of fresh eggs,
might give me some small income
(especially if I can manage to undercut the local deli).

Forty Gold Rings.
Lovely idea,
but unfortunately none of them fit.
At least I can put those on eBay.

Thirty-six Calling Birds.
I think I’ll have to take these to the park,
release them,
and just hope that they don’t have a homing instinct.

Thirty French Hens.
See Forty-two Geese, above.

Twenty-two Turtle Doves.
See Thirty-Six Calling Birds, above.

Twelve Partridges.
I wonder if the local poultry & game shop might be interested?

Twelve Pear Trees.
I don’t even like pears,
even when they aren’t covered in partridge-droppings.

What on earth 
could the Significant Other 
have possibly been thinking?

Now – where's the Yellow Pages?

I need a cleaning firm
which specialises in shifting cow-dung
and bird-poo...