Christmas happens every year / it can wear a little thin
So Santa said “I think it’s time / for me to go all in
“I’m going to host a party / when all the work is done
We’ll hold it down in Wellington / where they’re always having fun
“We’ll ask the usual suspects, but / let’s think outside the box
For instance, ask those shepherd guys / the ones who watched their flocks!
“We’ll have the blessed Mother come / and Joseph if he’s able
And the cattle whose loud lowing noise / woke sleepers in the stable
“And of course that famous baby / born on Christmas day
Yes - Justin Trudeau - though he’s never / In a manger lay
“The kids in town will have to come / so they’ll want lots of treats
While we wassail they’ll skate around / on the rink at Midtown Meats
“We must invite the three wise men / assuming they’re in town
They’d love to meet with Mel Torme / and schmooze with Parson Brown
“Good King Wenceslas will come / if the snow falls not one inch
He’ll get his chance to melt the heart / of mean old Mr. Grinch
“Ebenezer Scrooge, and the Cratchits / and the Ghost of Christmas Past
Chuck Dickens would have wanted it / but we’d better move real fast
We’ll sing some sacred carols / the tunes we love so well
Like “Rockin’ around the Christmas tree / Silent Night and Jingle Bells”
But his brow became all furrowed / and he stroked his bearded chin
As the awesome implications / began to settle in
“Eight reindeer plus young Rudolph / six laying geese, three hens
Twelve leaping lords, now hold it / where will the guest list end?
“And where’s the place to hold it / the old Town Hall’s too small
And we’re well beyond capacity / at Highline Mushroom Hall
“Just what’s this going to cost me / and I hope I don’t sound rude
But what if folks are only there / for eggnog and free food?
“And though he knows some party tricks / like ‘thumpety thump thump thump’
Frosty might bring trouble / or a tweet from Donald Trump
“As for that little drummer boy / I suppose that he can come
But if you’re like me you’ve heard enough / parumpa rumpa pum pum
“The local politicians all / will no doubt want to speak
If I give them 30 seconds / they’ll take up one whole week
“And the residents or Wellington / that they come is fundamental
But their houses look so empty / are they all vacation rentals?”
“And what if someone slips and falls / or gets into a fight?
I may be sued and liable / I’m a good guy - that’s not right!”
When he thought of all the hassles / the more it gave him pause
“‘No party,” he said, “I’ll stay home / just me and Mrs. Claus’
Some readers seem intent on nullifying the authority of David Simmonds. The critics are so intense; Simmonds is cast as more scoundrel than scamp. He is, in fact, a Canadian writer of much wit and wisdom. Simmonds writes strong prose, not infrequently laced with savage humour. He dissects, in a cheeky way, what some think sacrosanct. His wit refuses to allow the absurdities of life to move along, nicely, without comment. What Simmonds writes frightens some readers. He doesn't court the ineffectual. Those he scares off are the same ones that will not understand his writing. Satire is not for sissies. The wit of David Simmonds skewers societal vanities, the self-important and their follies as well as the madness of tyrants. He never targets the outcasts or the marginalised; when he goes for a jugular, its blood is blue. David Simmonds, by nurture, is a lawyer. By nature, he is a perceptive writer, with a gimlet eye, a superb folk singer, lyricist and composer. He believes quirkiness is universal; this is his focus and the base of his creativity. "If my humour hurts," says Simmonds,"it's after the stiletto comes out." He's an urban satirist on par with Pete Hamill and Mike Barnacle; the late Jimmy Breslin and Mike Rokyo and, increasingly, Dorothy Parker. He writes from and often about the village of Wellington, Ontario. Simmonds also writes for the Wellington "Times," in Wellington, Ontario.
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