My sons were always totally dismissive
of sitting down to write a yuletide missive,
addressed to some red-coated, bearded fraud,
who still delivered presents when ignored.
They thus arrived at this robust conclusion:
belief in Father Christmas was delusion.
And so, each year, with silent steps, I’d creep,
and place on beds of children not asleep,
those bulging stockings full of Christmas tat,
then make large disturbance. What a prat.
And as they lay awake inside their beds,
this thought went running through their little heads:
this Father Christmas chap was just their Dad,
a role at which he was uniquely bad.
But now they’re old enough to learn this fact:
the clumsy Father Christmas was an act.
Throughout their growing up I did conceal
the fact that Father Christmas is quite real,
but wouldn’t visit here to fill one stocking,
because their bad behaviour was so shocking.
This truth may come to them as some surprise
and make them less world-weary and more wise.
I know they’ll probably find it quite unnerving
to learn they were completely undeserving
of all that jolly childish festive stuff,
and, knowing them, they’ll storm off in a huff.