Hvem som er samlet Party Poppers?

De sprø folkene på der minner ønsker å ønske alle sine norske besøkende et godt nytår. opphold finjustert for flere zny- i 2012

All Things End

Rocks grow tired and leaves they crumble
Skeletons wither and in the darkness of age we stumble
Trees grow tall then rot from the core
Flowers no longer in bloom fading colour forever more
Artists and paintings fall from grace when we forget
And time marches on despite us trying to catch it in a net

No Longer Under the Tree

The presents are opened, the turkey dismantled.
Soap land has depressed us, sick of watching the cbeebies panto.
Bins are overflowing, belt buckles loosened
We struggle to believe so much is over so soon.
We're pleased with faces we spy opening presents
The lights in those eyes twinkling like diamonds
In twelve months the future we'll catch up to once more
And this thing we call Christmas will be what we're be excited for
So until that time when we take down that tree
Biscuits and Princesses will be enough for me

Post Ridiculous Stress Syndrone

Sausages and Bananas are not known to be friends.
Their meaty, fruity flesh will not meet (unless you're a sausage) or bend (unless you're a banana)
But if you're a clever chef with a hat and a fork
And a hankering for some sweet fruit mixed with the finest of pork.
Then peel back the skin and prick that mashed meat
Add some salt and some sugar then sit down to eat.
Now if you're mixed up meal didn't satisfy your palette
And you find yourself sick and wanting to hit yourself with a mallet
You can't blame me for this dish you abhor
You forgot to cook it and ate it quite raw.

Toshers

To find where we dump
To leap and not jump.
To create marvelous jewels
From the misery of Fools.

We never read the fine lines
Never understand the rules.
We never realise we're ruined
By Toshers chasing jewels

Hi, Christmas

Oh, there you are again
With your tinsel and
A punchable grin.
You're not special -
You're a Sunday
Trapped in fake handshakes
Faux forgiveness
Flatulence and fires
Backhanded compliments
And outright family liars
Hangers on and hanging out
Among the sleazy, shop-bought mistletoe
And pigging out.
There you are again
With your bulging sack
Of debt, courtesy of Asda
You'll be paying till you die
You'd better watch out -
You'd better not cry
A made-up man is bleeding you dry.
There you are again
With your tinsel and your grin
Hi, Christmas
Meet Mr Litter Bin

Californibadpun

Borrowed, spent or lost
My legacy to you
Is cashing in
Put your money
In the slot
And pay into
The generation
That life forgot.

Best Girl Yet

Earlier, I had a moment
The kind that you get
When the last sun
Of the summer sets.
But I'm not fuelled by hatred
And I'm not fuelled by regret.
But you were
the best girl yet
Maybe I'm easily led...

And today I had a notion
The kind that you get
When the first snow
Of the winter sets.
And I'm not fired by hatred
And I'm not fired by regret
But you were
The best girl yet.
Maybe you're better off dead.

Christmas Future??

A mere twelve months before the 25th the day approaching soon.
I knew not what the future held, or that my heart would be over the moon
I had never considered the things I'd spy in your world so bright not grey
Or that I'd for once be eagerly anticipating the dreaded Christmas day!

So before the presents are dished out and the turkey cooked to feed the hungry
And the Boxing Day sales have started, shops eager for you to part with your money
I'd like to tell you just one thing, without the coca-cola advert playing or the sound of jingle bells and sleighs
It's that I'll always love you and I can't wait for Christmas Day!

Dear Black Pete

Pop Up Pirate

Soda Stream

Big Trak

Rubik's Snake

I never recieved these gifts from you in 1987.

Why?

Hark The Voice Of All Things Festive

Oh, Christmas Tree
Oh, Christmas Tree
Will I have presents under thee?
......
........
..........

Oh, shit you are just a tree, a hunk of organic matter without the ability to convey to me any sort of prediction as to whether there will be brightly bundled boxes of trite gifts under you weighty bough this December, I apologise immediately for bothering you.

Idols Of Idiots

I am a magazine
Making idols of idiots,
Let's expand this thing -
I'm a snowstorm in a limousine
A snowball in the nape
Of the forest where no-one lives.
I'm a sell-out
Making idols from idiots
Getting strung out on ketamine.

Thirty-Three RPM

I take bins round supermarkets
Turning into starships and
Names with "a" through "z" double "e".
I stand at AM train stations,
And the wind howls through me
Grass the protector atop on the bank
A 12" vinyl of a seminal album,
from 1975 or, more likely, '73. Well, Fuck me.
Let the wind run free, at 33rpm, eternally.

Weird Beats

Ha, staying alive?
It's all a game we play
To be someone
To gee someone
From a slumber.

Ah, staying alive?
Don't make me laugh
The idea it's a skill
Makes me ill
Like Buddah on sambutamol.

Festive Why

It's Christmas soon, yes Christ Mass
So why am I putting tinsel up and not myrrh?
It's that Yuletide time that Saviours day
So why am I following the race for the Xmas no.1 and not Shepherds?
It's a time to remember all the wonders of winter
And not the terrible pain of a christmas tree splinter

As you may have realised I don't get it.

Hearts From Liars

We're shoes someone else
Treads in, taking in threads
Making pennies from string
Walking these streets, begging.

We're easy-loving types
Handing leaflets to robots
Making emotion from wires
Steeling our hearts from liars.