Santa Claus don’t live here anymore.
Rusty hinges on his kitchen door.
Notice on the mantelpiece,
“All deliveries will cease,
As from Christmas Eve…and that’s for sure.”
Santa’s hearth don’t blaze here anymore.
Arctic breezes chill each corridor,
Frozen pipes and icy loo,
Dried-up heaps of reindeer poo,
Scarlet outfit mould’ring in a drawer.
Santa Claus don’t work here anymore.
This is something none of us foresaw:
Idle benches, barren shelves,
Empty sacks, redundant elves,
Tinsel strewn around, like twinkly straw.
Santa don’t deliver anymore.
See his sleigh, jacked-up behind the door!
Reindeer tackle fills a sack,
Jingle bells hang from a rack,
Santa has decided to withdraw.
Santa’s shut up shop for evermore:
Superseded by a superstore.
Tear up your “Dear Santa” letter!
(AMAZON CAN DO IT BETTER)
Santa’s heart’s not in it anymore.