Santa Gets Copped

Another poem, though if features a fair amount of speech. A seasonal novelty, Year Seven English. Typos remain. It's pretty hilarious, actually. And no, at this timepoint, I hadn't seen 'Miracle on 34th Street', therefore I was not inspired by it, and therefore, ultimately, any similarities are all entirely coincidental. Guess it's a popular idea for a tale to tell.

Monday 8th December 2008

Christmas Santa gets Copped.

The clock strikes twelve,
The chimney gets blocked,
A man as fat as a truck squeezes down.

As the fat man is straining,
The lights turn on,
Mum and Dad, who are snacking on pies,
Hear a plop and a bang, and the fat man says,
"Are  those for me?"

There is a burgular in the house,
Hi 999, He's carrying a bag of toys,
Those are robbed from another house,
He says he's a saint, and is a hundred years old,
With a name of Santa Nicholas Claus.
 
The men in Jim Jams get in the car,
It rushes down to the house,
And a Saint called Santa
Gets copped.
 
"Put your hands on your head," said the cop,
"But don't this family want any toys?" questioned the fat man,
"A DS Lite for little Jim,
A pack of perfume for mama,
and razor blades for Papa
all made in the arctic snow?"
 
"You're under arrest for making toys illegially,"
"But every person on the planet gets a present from me,
Except for those little rascals".
The cops still aren't satisfied,
And starts a court case the very next day.
 
It was Christmas morning,
And little Jim woke up,
He looked in his stocking,
Nothing there,
He ran down stairs to under the tree,
Nothing there.
 
He ran to his parents screaming,
"Santa hasen't given us any presents,
We got no presents, Santa's been robbed!",
"It's alright deary, he's in court,
He I bet he was stealing our toys!"
"No, no, no! You've got it all wrong!
He was trying to give us gifts!"
 
His pa Mum and Dad believe this child,
They tell the jury he was trying to give them gifts,
And get all those fantastic gifts on boxing day.

© 2008 Peter Webb

A Superior Economy Grew

Thursday 8th October 2009.

This is a poem I wrote for World Poetry Day in 2009 at a school event at lunchtime. I've posted an audio version before on YouTube, which is now no longer online. It features the tale of a character of mine, Mr. Fuggleboppins, who appeared in some of my creative works between 2009 and 2010.  This character name became my username on a few sites. Another 2009 character of mine, Celio the Dragon, also appears; his original epic story I'll be posting soon. Typos remain here, as always, so yes I know 'business' is spelt incorrectly in every instance.

On a planet far away from ours,
a superior economy grew.
And on that planet was a buisnessman,
who was completely covered in blue.
 
He was popular among local bars,
and had drunk a pint or two.
He had struck a deal,
so he could heal,
a lost glass robot army.
 
Many people thought he was barmy,
but he could do it,
unless he got hit,
by his biggest enemy.
 
And so they fought,
blood spurting everywhere,
but he got burnt by a ball of fire.
That enemy was a dragon named Celio,
who came from another dimension.

 His underbelly got sliced,
and priced to a fellow auctioneer.
And so the project started,
with help from the planet's leader.
 
The glass was cheaper,
you see fellow reader,
but the robots managed to invade.
London got obliterated,
but the robots were shattered by the police.

 The army was destroyed,
the project was ruined,
and the buisnessman almost cried.
 
He tried to regain profit through various ways,
and he built a secret fairground.
But that was in Blackpool,
and he tripped over a beach ball,
and the buisnessman's name was Mr. Fuggleboppins.

© 2009 Peter Webb