“What do you want for Christmas?”
I’m often asked these days.
“There must be something that you’d like,
So now’s your chance to say.”
And when I hear this question,
I give a shrug and sigh.
Allow myself a pregnant pause,
And then at length reply:
“I don’t want any aftershave.
I don’t need any socks.
No underpants, exotic plants,
Or sticks of Blackpool Rock.
I wouldn’t like a flowery shirt,
No tie or silk cravat.
No boxing gloves, no training shoes,
No Cricket Whites or bat.
My home’s chock-full of paperbacks,
And hardbacks come to that.
I’ve no desire for knives and forks,
For tablecloths or mats.
I’ve no use for computer games.
I’m well-stocked with CDs.
I sure don’t want no mobile phone,
iPod or DVDs.
I rarely carry handkerchiefs.
I never have worn slippers.
I’ve got three pairs of swimming trunks,
Plus snorkel, goggles, flippers.
I own a nice, posh fountain pen.
I’ve black, blue, green, red ink.
I don’t need no more whisky.
I’ve still plenty left to drink.
I don’t want any bath salts.
No talc, no soap, shampoo.
I don’t require a calendar
To pin up in my loo.
So don’t go getting me such gifts.
I’ll just throw them away.
‘Cos all I want for Christmas
Is three points on Derby Day!”
Denys E. W. Jones