Sean's Stories

Posted by sean on 24/12/2017 at 11:25 pm in Christmas, Leeds United with No Comments

A Christmas poem I wrote for a certain white-bearded, ex-Leeds United owner…

Christmas morning did arrive
Young Kenny could not contain his grin
He scampered down his bedroom stairs
To see what his wife had bought him

He passed Susannah a gift from him
She opened it with glee
A piece of coal lay in her hands
How generous was he!

She thanked her hubby for the gift
And smiled for quite a while
“You’re so thoughtful, Ken”
Susannah said
Before adding to the coal pile

Ken asked where abouts his present was,
Susannah said outside
“You’ve always wanted one of these”
His devoted wife replied

Ken looked outside right away
A grin grew on his face
For where a push bike once was stood
A private jet lay in its place

Later on, that Festive Day,
Ken asked to watch The Queen
The reception on his Freeview box cut out
Why had be been so mean?

A satellite dish from B Sky B, would have cost some money
But would have worked and done the trick
Instead the Her Madge looked quite funny

Up on the roof Ken did climb
To fix the aerial
He remembered not to trip and fall
Like he poor Emu fellow

Just as he fixed the thing
He heard something that shook his soul
Turning round, he saw Santa Clause
On his way back to the cold North Pole

“You’ve been a naughty boy”
Santa said, in an angry tone
“I’ve listened to your podcasts, and you always bloody moan!”

“Arabs this, taxes that, competitions I never win
I don’t know why I bother, Ken
I’m the only one who tunes in”

Ken mumbled something about refugees
Which wasn’t very nice
Santa picked him up and held him high
He grip was like a vice

“Put me down, you moron”, barked old Mr B
Santa ignored the old man’s demands
And threw him in the sea

I don’t know what became of Poor Old Ken,
After he got wet
The rumour is Susannah left with Santa Clause, in a private jet

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Sean's Stories

On this website, you’ll find me blogging (almost) daily about everyday life, living in Bath, working with computers, and the occasional bit of football stuff thrown in.

If you're expecting The Man Booker Prize, you've come to the wrong place. If you want to read a collection of sometimes eccentric, often disturbing and rarely amusing ramblings, gorge your eyes on this.

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