It was never a time for me,

I would smile and wish the same,

that you, my friend, would

see hope in the year to come

as Christmas came round again.

I would cook the dinner,

argue about sprouts,

force one down

the throat that craved, not turkey,

dry tasteless meat that had no right

to be served upon my table,

but perhaps a sense of humility

and an early bacon sandwich

covered in brown sauce.

 

Not for me this day