Boxing Day Poem.

Indulgeratum that's 'Boxing Day' in Latin.
Under pressure are the trousers I am sat in.
Extremely gaudy the Christmas shirt I look a twat in
but I don't care it's Boxing Day.

I'm bloody stuffed because it is the season.
But I'm still hungry there is no rhyme nor reason.
Bring me a platter with pickle, ham and cheese on
let's 'ave it cos it's Boxing Day.

I want to be pure and simply quite sedentary.
Binge on liqueurs cos that's just elementary.
I feel I must eat like the Landed Gentry,
Head in the trough on Boxing Day.

Bring me a pouf that I can rest my feet on.
I cannot move for the amount that I have eaten.
I have devoured the repertoire of Mrs Beaton
but I can't stop, it's Boxing Day.

IPods so loud the kids'll wreck their hearing.
The telly's on and my wife is Richard Gere-ing.
At least the pong of sprouts is finally clearing,
thank Christ for that on Boxing Day.

Earlier on we all agreed that we'd go walkin'
With bracing winds (sprouts again) and lots of fambly talkin'
But we stayed home just like Mcauley Caulkin,
too wet out there on Boxing Day.

My wife cooks well, nothing's ever gonna taste bland.
Don't want to walk out in the winter wasteland.
I'll fetch my strides with the elasticated waistband.
More turkey please! 

it's Boxing Day.

Christmas 2012 - still makes me chuckle.