Goodwyn Wendle’s lass looked out,
On her Christmas Dinner:
Not good for her uncle’s gout
She would get no thinner!
Mother counting calories
Of the roasted turkey,
Couldn’t put her mind at ease,
Mental maths was murky!

Aunt Paige brought her sandwiches,
Filled with something smelly,
Boiled pheasant, partridges,
Scrapings from her welly?
Something brownly festered there,
Maybe made from dead mice?
Something that the cat dragged in,
Wrapped up in a bread slice!

Sprouts were steaming on the stove,
Been there since last Sunday.
Chocolate piles, a treasure trove,
Mince pies till next Monday!
Mashed potatoes, roast and boiled,
Bread sauce, looking risky,
Grandpa getting slowly oiled
On her father’s whisky!