season's beatings

season’s beatings

 

‘tis the loneliest time

of the year,

and it’s three-for-one

on Christmas cheer,

so roll up,

and drink

and drink

and drink

and drink

and drink

and drink

away your fear.

 

hark the herald angels sing,

as we become a nation

that can do no-thing,

but drown

in oceans of cheap alcohol,

desensitised from one another,

drowning beneath

violent sensation.

 

and it won’t be a silent night,

as the cringing flows,

and the stinging blows,

and the morning lows,

and the blackouts

start to bite.

 

so, lose yourself in a haze

of cruelty, violence and haste,

as the beauty of family,

the sanctity of love,

the eventual close of the year,

is laid to waste

in litres of ways.

 

gift wrapped,

in supermarket colours of despair,

lost in a blurring of days;

needing years to repair.

 

‘tis the loneliest time

of the year,

and it’s three-for-one

on Christmas cheer,

so roll up,

and drink

and drink

and drink

and drink

and drink

and drink

away the fear.