Dear Santa

[Hawkman]

Oh when will it stop raining?
It’s rained for days and days,
It’s going to rain for ever,
at least, so the forecast says.

The weathermen and women
Have had to build an ark
But we haven’t any mountain tops
Round here where they can park.

The water level’s rising
And in the street outside
It gives a whole new meaning
To the talk of Christmastide

Does Santa have a sleigh that floats,
Can all the reindeer swim,
And are the presents waterproof?
If not, they’re for the bin.

Perhaps the North Pole’s melted
And St. Nicholas’ mail
Drifts up to him in bottles
When his troika’s under sail.

But here the waves lap doorsteps
And the windows are all closed,
The firewood’s too damp to burn
While all the hearths look hosed.

Because the roof is leaking
And conditions are so shocking,
What I really want from Santa
Is a wetsuit in my stocking.

[Twota]

lololol, I really love this. XD

[Delta40]

Good wit Hawk. I hope the weather doesn't dampen your spirits!

[Buh4Bee]

Just get a bottle of wine and you can temporarily drown the sorrows.

Happy Christmas to you, Hawk! Fun poem.

[Haunted]

No one should be dry for Christmas Hawk, you know that right? That's why they invented eggnog. But rain? No!!! Here everyone's talking about a White Christmas, now I feel lucky it's not going to be a Wet Christmas for us. Love the present you're asking Santa for, lots of fun and laughs.

[Hawkman]

My thanks to all who've read this verse
about the rain, a Christmas curse,
and though it's true, the waters rise,
it isn't such a big surprise,
for in this damp and foggy clime
it always rains around this time.

I like the thought of Yule-tide cheer
with spirits poured, and lots of beer;
I'll gnaw upon a turkey breast,
because I like the white meat best,
while sitting at my brother's table,
eating till I feel unable.

Then I'll snooze before the telly,
fully stuffed, with rounded belly,
oblivious to all occurring,
nothing will provoke my stirring,
'til I wake and stagger home
to practice banjo on my own.

This is kinder to all others
as my playing kind of stutters,
in fact I only know one tune
and it's appeal will fade by noon,
but then a ritual I' can't fault,
I'll pour myself a single malt.

I'm glad I gave you all a laugh
while sitting here in boots and scarf,
my brolly though is inside out,
more fitting to a time of drought;
but rain or shine, we Brits complain,
it's something of a national game.

Live and be well for the religious festival of your choice - H