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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic


Will you find your way

Home for Christmas

Or will you fall down drunk

Yet again?

Or get stuck in a brothel

With three whisky bottles

Some whores

And unsavoury men?

Knowing you, you’ll fall asleep

With a book, an empty Shiraz bottle

And two cats squeezing you out of bed

Awaiting to be fed.

I’m not accusing you

Of being sleazy or amoral.

Maybe next year, my dear –

All my my sweetest love to you, Carol.

Submitted: November 11, 2020

© Copyright 2021 Craig Davison. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:


Mike S.

I'd hate to cross you, Craig --excellent

Thu, November 12th, 2020 12:18am


Thanks Mike. 'Tis the season....

Sat, November 14th, 2020 1:43pm

Craig Davison

Thanks, Mike. I don't know where this came from. Somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind.

Thu, November 12th, 2020 12:31am


This must be one of the most unique seasonal poems, Craig. I love how you use poetry to set out those feelings.

Fri, November 13th, 2020 11:37am


Thanks Hullabaloo22. It's cheerier than last years Christmas/ Saturnalia poem, The Christmas Suicides. It probably goes too far but the world is going through a collective madness at the moment, so anything goes, as they say. All the best, Craig.

Sat, November 14th, 2020 1:48pm

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