At Least Some Get It Right

So you know that it’s Christmas, as all down each street

The young gape at flat screens as the adults compete

For attention to how many lights are displayed

And amount of inflatable icons arrayed

To observers of culture, all this effort might seem

A ridiculous surfeit, excessive, extreme

Zoology students might choke on their words

At the vastness of Southern Hemispherical herds


The migratory patterns of reindeer bizarre

Such numbers of deep Northern species so far

In the heat of the South such great burgeoning forth

So far from the midwinter snows of the North

From Arctic habitats curiously wandered

A freakish annual anomaly pondered

By thinkers, who – normally omniscient –

Will marvel at this strange, irrational event


The displays at each dwelling that blaze so at night

Do they indicate acts not engaged in daylight?

So, perhaps all the bright flashing colours stand for

Procreational alpha male prowess indoors

Such flaunted brilliance shows readiness for mating

Combined with euphonious noises, creating

Species-wide impetus for clan groups to gather

And work all the offspring into a lather


Omnipresent in effigy, ordained figurehead

The mass genuflects to the Great Leader in Red

Hordes of consumers are beholden to Him

The omnipotent guru whose each pseudonym

Evokes an outpouring of primal emotion

In young and old, universally, devotion

Encouraged by the priests of the temples, wherein

Exchange of each token will wash away sin


The competitive, grasping acquisitive need

For bright shiny objects; makes ongoing stampede

Of the elders to temples of worship where they

Sacrifice all to the glittering display

Greater offspring indulgence? More sin reconciled

Inversely proportionate to time spent with child

And then there’s the feeding; the temple’s selection

Giving the faithful their culinary direction


Ensuring that movement away from the table

Will only be possible when diners are able

To stand unassisted, refasten their clothing

Diets abandoned, now lost in self-loathing

Forever doomed into dietary failure

And such is the fate, not just in Australia

But all around the world, except those who abstain

From the marathon meals with portions insane


And the Herald-Sun angels in glitter and bling

Make occasional reference in songs that they sing

To the birth of a babe in a manger somewhere

Each year an audience minority will care

And you know there are those who are right off the grid

They help the less fortunate, those normally hid

While the givers anonymously stay out of sight

Happy Christmas to them. At least some get it right.