The locals, who were born 'down here'
See nothing odd at this time of year,
In people deciding to sally forth
Dressed as though they lived up north!
Christmas originated, long ago,
In the lands of ice and snow.
The Roman festival 'Saturnalia'
Along with all its paraphernalia,
Was exported to defeated nations
Who happily joined the celebrations.
The festival came at the time of year
When winter was cold and bleak and drear;
A great big party went down well
When outside was a living hell.
Lots of debauchery and wine,
People getting out of line,
Made the peasants shout 'Hooray!'
Especially as Spring was on the way.
When Christianity arrived
The Saturnalia survived
Because the church just changed the name!
Folk had parties just the same
But they became less rude and wild
Because they involved the Holy Child.
People still ate and drank to excess,
Overcome with happiness,
And, don't forget, the wintry weather
Made them happy to flock together.
Now here, in Australia, in December
The weather's blistering hot, remember!
But still folk wade through gigantic meals!
Imagine how a surfer feels
Weighed down by turkey and plum pud!
I bet he doesn't feel too good.
But, never mind, it is TRADITION!
It's very odd......
The human condition!
HOT DIGGITY DOGGEREL!
What is a Writer? I hear you ask.
Who is this person and what their task?
They may be living in garret or hovel,
Writing the perfect Australian novel.
They may bend their brows over timeless prose,
Through which the course of history flows.
Or maybe they write for Mills and Boon,
With men who smoulder and girls who swoon.
They may be producing a heavy tome
Concerning the goings-on in Rome,
With inspiration from the past;
A cavalcade with a mighty cast.
On the other hand there's the essay-writer
Whose works are briefer but never slighter.
Memoirs are writings that seek to capture
That well known 'first, fine, careless rapture'
There are writers of speeches who use the pen
To spur things on in affairs of men.
Who use their language to make that spin
That lands us all in the mess we're in!
And then there are diaries we daily write
Recording our lives before sleep each night.
Although they have no literary merit
They're something others can inherit!
So much for prose! Now we come to verse,
Lyric and long, or short and terse.
There are those for whom the thoughts run deep,
Whose passions shudder and terrors creep.
These words are chosen with lengthy care
And the depths of souls are then laid bare.
A hint of a rhyme would be out of place
And a rollicking rhythm would be a disgrace.
And then there's the poet we know full well:
The higgledy-piggledy and pell-mell.
Whose simple doggerel merely hops
From rhyme to rhyme until it stops!
Yes of all the many different bards
Let's remember the writers of greeting cards.
The writers of la-di-dah and chant
Whose words you send to your favourite aunt.
Those poets who write 'the holly berry'
And neatly rhyme it with 'Joy' and 'Merry'.
With Happy Birthday! Glad New Year!
Anniversary, Festive Cheer!
Lots of Luck or Congratulations!
Even, at times, Commiserations!
Brand New Baby! Hole in One!
Happy Retirement from Everyone!
Although their words aren't smouldering, yearning,
They do help this sorry old world keep turning.
And now it is the holiday season
I write to greet you!
A very good reason.