There’s a gaggle of straggly moose about
It must be that time of year
For tinsel and tantrums and tingling bells
And whisky and champagne and beer.
But if you used to worry what pigeons might drop -
From them there is little to fear,
Unlike the risk of being beneath
An overfed flatulent deer.
They eat mainly grass – and a catkin or two
And the leaves of those lilies that float,
But their breath smells like something inside them has died
And is rotting away in their throat.
They haven’t got wings or those whirlybird things
So how come that Rudolphs can fly?
Perhaps it’s the gas that escapes from their ears
That supports Santa’s sledge in the sky.
Should you be outside on a Christmas Eve night
Walking the dog just by chance,
If there’s noise overhead from those deer and that sledge
Think twice before taking a glance.
For if Rudolph’s on form, you’d better be warned
Grab a bucket, a spade and a peg,
Forget about custard, brandy butter or cream,
Put this on your rhubarb instead.