Christmas for Monty and Robin
(With apologies to Amarinta)
And while the critters were all hob-nobbin’;
The field mice and the red-breast robin,
A squeal went up, ‘what, pray, was that?
‘I think it is the farmyard cat.’
‘Oh my sweet holy Jesus
I think she means to come and seize us.’
The choir of weasels ceased their carols
And hid inside some nearby barrels
The robin sobbed and Monty cowered
While Monty’s mum, her courage flowered,
Stood before the cat and glowered.
It was just then the owl flew down
And scooped up Monty by his crown.
He said to Monty, ‘I don’t hate yer’
You understand all this is nature
I just prefer ’twere I that ate yer.’
And with one bite young Mont was gone
‘Happy Christmas everyone!’
On Boxing Day, Mont’s sister Matty
Who, for a rodent, was rather catty,
Giggled at mum, ‘Mum, can you smell it?
That thing. Looks like a puked up pellet’.
Her mother with a bitter scowl
Replied, ‘the laugh was all on Owl
It seems our Monty tasted foul.’
But what fortune befell that other beast,
The robin with its flame-red breast?
Did Puss enjoy a Yuletide feast?
Or was the bird’s demise more bleak and murky
Than simply playing feline turkey?
Gather round, all children dear
Sit quietly down and you shall hear
(A few, I ween will shed a tear)
How robin’s fate was more macabre
Than being served up with sprouts and carb.
The truth? An enterprising weasel
Pinned sweet robin to his easel
Dare I say, all spread-eagle.
(Quite ironic and absurd
For such a very little bird)
But this mustela Damien Hirst
Had yet to do his very worst
He called to all the farm yard folk,
‘Roll up, roll up, don’t push don’t poke’.
Then chuckled as he lit a smoke.
‘Feast your eyes, excuse the pun,
This life is still; such jolly fun.
I dedicate this piece to one:
Robin’s friend the mouse, who pre-deceased her
Take your time to look, she’s here till Easter.’