A Really Contrived Poem
About Contrived Occasions That I
Have Contrived for the Contrived
Occasion of National Poetry Day
Have a Merry Christmas – with B&Q!
What better way to celebrate
the birth of our Lord
than with cut-price deals on plasterboard?
British Valentine’s Sirloin Steak –
because nothing says I love you
more than the thrifty supermarket
butchery of a cow.
Thank you, good St Valentine and Morrisons,
for a steak for just two pounds.
Halloween around the corner?
Get this frightening Ann Summers nurse outfi t
for just a tenner.
Get to fuck, you think – yes, that seems to be
the message:
you’ll get to, if you invest in some Halloween
faux leather!
Where’s this all going to lead?
Get your mead for Eid?
A manicure for Hanukkah?
DVDs of Joe Pasquale for Diwali?
A gastric band for Ramadan?
Nude calendar for Advent?
Vodka set for Lent?
What? No connection between product/service
and celebration?
No worries; we’ll make up a poem for all occasions –
to grammar we’ll pay proper no attention;
we’ll force some rhymes and then just disregard scansion.
Cos you’ll need a card!
You’ll need a card!
Like a puppy we’ll remind you:
a card’s not just for Christmas – ay?
There’s a new occasion every day!
Happy Uncle and/or Aunty Day, Pete and Karen,
I got you this card that says Sorry You Were Barren!
A combo special:
Happy Retirement/Sympathy
to old Brian from pensions and his wife.
He always did encourage us to plan ahead in life.
What you gonna get for your Tinder date?
A T-shirt that ironically states
I went out with xxx
and all I got was chlamydia
from the disappointing sex?
Baby shower? Shower of shite!
For your fill in blank,
I got you this pile of wank,
sold to me with OCB,
Occasion-Based Marketing
infecting me from the age of three
with Coca-Cola Santa’s jingle-jangle.
The white-haired man fixed it for me
and all the other guys and gals.
We never really stood a chance
when a critical mass of morons
made it the norm,
banging the drum for pointless dances
so people repeated freakish mantras:
Have a Merry Christmas with B&Q – fuck you!
I’ve had a vision of your future.
Your bloated body is cast adrift on a floating blob of toxic rot in the
middle of a nuclear sea, being sodomised by a mutant chicken
escaped from an oceanic chain of KFCs,
its talons rubbing your face in the chocolate wrappers, soiled nappies
and rusty razor blades beneath, as it holds you down to ram you
with its novelty plastic prosthetic cock made in the shape of the
branded beak.
And you? You are asking for the go-large happy family meal deal –
because it’s cheap.
Anyway, Dad, Happy Father’s Day.
Sorry I never sent you a card.
