#xmasalone,
THE CHRISTMAS TABLE.
(Part one)
(Once I was/am) the Hobgoblin poet,
(I was) once a hobbledehobbleboy,
Hiding under your Christmas table,
Living off scraps dropped,
By messy Hu-man eaters.
I was that awkward youth,
Hobbled by the must haves,
Hobbled by bullying knaves,
Hobbled by Fear of Missing Out,
Hobbled when I lost my family,
Hobbled by my Adoptive Family.
This hobbledeboy grew in body and malice,
Growing on the scraps gleaned and gathered,
Gleaned from the Christmas table,
Forcing my very sinew to triumph,
Over those who made mad dreams their master.
The Christmas table.
(part two)
I grew into the hobgoblin poet,
Only gleaning a feast of food, once a year,
Under your Christmas table,
Feeding on your social unease,
For this year’s remaining days.
This once hobbledeboy now grown,
Still dwells under your Christmas table,
Feeding the feuds of the hu-mans,
For the thirteen days of xmas,
The day after misrule my favourite.
I am the hobgoblin poet,
Loving the fun of being,
The lord of misrule on twelfth night,
Causing havoc for you knaves,
Leaving you hu-man’s ill on thirteenth night.
This once hobbledeboy now must sign off,
Leaving the rule of under table,
To the next generation,
Of misfits, outcasts and exiled hobbleds,
To keeping the hu-man knaves in their own,
Own Bigoted and oppressive place.
© 12/12/2021 rog leach
perspective poetry 