Dear Father Christmas . . .

I know it’s December,
And you’ve lots to remember,
But I’d like to run over some things.
My kids sent you a letter
And it’s probably better
If I tell you which toys NOT to bring.

I know they were smitten
By a small little kitten,
But please don’t bring them a pet.
They really don’t need it,
I’m too busy to feed it,
And I can’t face the trips to the vet.

They don’t need more dolls,
Or funny-haired trolls,
And please nothing with lots of small bits.
Nothing noisy like drums,
Or with pressable tums,
Which make sounds that get on my . . . nerves.

They want things to make
But please, for my sake,
Don’t bring stuff that just makes a mess.
You might question this ban,
But you must understand,
I already have craft-induced stress.

They may ask for a game,
And if it’s all the same,
Can you find one with rules we can learn?
If it requires us to look,
At a very long book,
We will give up before our next turn.

Lego’s on the list
And that can be missed
Because, though I’m reluctant to moan,
We’ve bought tons of the stuff,
And they now have enough,
To build a small house of their own.

You may think me cruel,
For imposing these rules,
That it’s Christmas and I should be fair.
So I will give in,
If you bring me some gin,
Then by teatime I’ll no longer care.

2 thoughts on “Dear Father Christmas . . .

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