Too Much of a Good Thing

At first it was all rather sweet:
Christmas morning – the partridge, the pear tree
The little tub.
I’d only had the tinsel tree before.
Very thoughtful.
Our first Christmas and he couldn't be with me -
Just the sort of consideration I like.

But by New Year's Eve matters were rather serious –
The place was like an aviary
Trust him to be too logical.
Seven partridges, twelve turtle doves
Fifteen French hens, sixteen colly birds,
Twelve geese all a-laying and no market for the eggs
And Seven swans a-swimming in the bath.
The pear trees bowing out onto the landing.
The carpet suffered and the neighbours complained

And after that it just got worse.

So now, with a dozen drummers;
Twenty-two pipers sounding like the Mod at Oban;
Thirty lords a-leaping all over the place,
None of them easy to catch and coronets landing everywhere;
Thirty-six ladies in four-and-a-half eightsomes prancing
To the pipes and drums;
Forty milkmaids, cows and stools and pails and the men
from the Milk Marketing Board and the RSPCA;
And two hundred – and-twenty-four birds of one kind of another;
No chance of a bath; no desire even
To walk in my pear-tree orchard,
Not nearly enough room to kill and each a partridge…

Next year I’ll take him to a hotel for Christmas.

PS. Does anyone know of a bigger flat?

We’ve got forty gold rings for a deposit.

Just the two of us, and one of the pipers.

Alex Gregory