That being said
under the head
lies blackness of beer and a texture so fine.

slipperiness incarnate

many a slip-up.

All I want to get is love, respect, and cash,
And less precipitation when I need to dash,
from house to car or then from car to pub,
and someone hired and paid to make our grub.

But, to be honest, I’m expecting socks. Again.

No pie’s a patch on my Mum’s home baked pastries,
Deep crisp and even, and filled to the brim.
Perfectly crisp from the crust to the base of it,
Mincemeat contained in the pastry so thin.

Maybe it’s personal, maybe it’s normal.
Mass produced baking for others is fine,
I might prefer crispy, homemade and generous,
But of all qualities, it must be mine!

Come, much annointed one,
God’s choice, God’s Son,
In the darkness, light has come.
Now is the appointed time.

Come, deliverer, set us free:
as was; could be.
In this Advent may we see,
both the mystery and the sign.

Now I see
taxation woes
dog my life
until its close.

If I pass
that’s some reprieve!
Then you tax
whate’er I leave.

It’s harder to keep a straight face,
To put my bad boys in their place,
I know how it goes and what might have been said,
and how that develops to scuffling instead;
we make them say sorry and sit on the step,
but separate steps just in case.