The bell rings for Round Two: Boxing Day
Cold meats, pickles and the turkey come back out to play

For yet another day to drink and eat
And put those Christmas socks on both your feet

Families laugh and friends all gather
Pulling one last Christmas cracker

New films get watched and first bikes ridden
As the top from Nanny goes in the cupboard and hidden

What an excuse to remain drunk and merry
And not eat a single fruit or tiny berry

But I know a lady who once lost her Boxing Day
She woke up in pain and was suddenly whisked away

A strange bed was hers where she stayed on her back
While her fella almost had a heart attack

She cried: “Three weeks early, why can this be?”
Her husband laughed: “Perhaps he heard the Christmas tree”

The lady gave a push and a squeeze
As her family munched on festive cheese

It wasn’t long and the deed was done
And she held on tight to her new born son

So raise a glass for my old mother
Who 26 years ago, gave my brother a brother

© Carl Burkitt 2012

He’d never experienced feeling alone,
Not with his iPod and swanky smartphone.

But when the Twitter app froze and Facebook crashed,
He sat in the pub intent on getting smashed.

Six or seven pints for liquid relief,
Turned to those thoughts hidden beneath.

He dreamt of the girls who slipped through his fingers,
Some of them hot, but most of them mingers.

That kiss with Mark for a drunken bet,
His lips all pert, soft, warm and wet.

The machine that pumped his gran’s lungs with air,
As she lay in bed with lank, messy hair.

Daddy painting over Jen’s bedroom walls,
Mum packing up unused nappies, blocks and balls.

His phone vibrated and Twitter was back,
Thank God it’s Friday! Hashtag, feel like crap.

© Carl Burkitt 2012