Just a bit of fun that isn't dependent on the expenditure of limited financial resources. Also in celebration of Sunderland's success against the auld enemy.
Santy Claws
Santy
is a Mackem,
of
that ah have nee doubt,
its
plain from when he burnt his bot,
the
accent of his shout.
Dad
had banked the fire up,
to
stay in for the neet,
Santa
made a slipup,
and
also burnt his feet.
ah’d
left him leeks and beer,
also
a carrot Mam said,
divint
forget the reindeer,
ah
thowt he’d prefer a Fed.
Suitably
replete the owld man got busy,
stacking
presents beneath the tree,
continued
until he felt quite dizzy,
leaving
stuff for you and me.
Up
he got, prepared to leave,
and
continue on his way,
to
please the bairns who still believe,
in
magic Christmas Day.
They
slept in until 5 o’clock,
and
all the leets were on,
stared
at the pile of toys in shock,
but
Santy Claws had gone.
The
pile of bonny paper grew,
there
was glitter everywhere,
perhaps
in little hearts they knew,
it
was mam and dad who care.
Did
the bairns get all they wanted,
Playstation
5, new bike or foal,
Santy’s
sack with prezzies abounded,
but
some received a lump of coal.
If
yer’d been bad throughout the year,
and
were on his naughty list,
Christmas
Day nee time of cheer,
toys
and games would be sorely missed.
After,
Santy can put up his feet,
share
a glass with wor lass,
consider
salad an off duty treat,
and
look forward to a Happy Christmas.
© David L Atkinson December 2025
God Bless
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