The icebergs are melting.

 
 
We didn't have a pub Christmas dinner,
I had eggs and chips,
in a café by the highway.
 
Then Ideal home,
the bird cut thin,
bottles of fine white wine
and perfect vegetables.
 
We chattered and ate,
passing the sprouts round;
I wore a paper crown
and handed out cards,
as a magician and a bard.
 
So to the social dinner,
all claims and winner;
it had been cooking for 24 hours,
a sort of turkey bubble and squeak, with flowers.
 
I got a bottle of Jack Daniels,
now slightly stoned,
watching two doors down, on iplayer;

another glass of prosecco,
I should get the orange with no bits.

 
 
~