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A Man of a Few More Words - by Swan Morrison

Santa's Reindeer (Poem)

It was Christmas Eve on the High Street,
The vendors were dressed for a laugh -
With checkout girls sporting red Santa hats,
And elf helpers for post office staff.

Outside the Bank a van screeched to a halt,
Eight raiders rushed in at a canter.
I was heartened they too joined the seasonal fun,
Wearing masks of the reindeer of Santa.

Alarm bells contributed festival sounds,
Gunshots could have fireworks been,
As the reindeer effected a hasty retreat,
Pursued by an armed response team.

It was clear the Police had known of the raid,
A matter which made me quite restive,
As they simply had worn their black, bullet-proof vests,
And made no attempt to be festive.

Dasher spun round and attempted to fire,
A move which I thought quite unwise.
The first police shot blew an antler away,
The second was right ‘twixt the eyes.

One six year old spoke for the child of today -
Innocence, street wisdom laced:
‘Santa will be very cross with his deer -
Least the ones that the Filth do not waste.’

Dancer and Prancer and Vixen
Reached the Shopping Mall’s Christmas display,
Whilst Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen
Were abruptly gunned down on the way.

With toy elves, a sleigh and some snowmen
Stood a real, living Santa that morning.
‘Get back or the fat, bearded guy is dead meat.’
Prancer shouted his desperate warning.

The children, they scattered in terror,
Then confided their one greatest fear:
‘If that naughty old reindeer kills Santa,
Will we get any presents this year?’

It was lucky that this stand-in Santa
Had a plan to escape from the mess,
As he liked to play Santa by way of a break
From instructing for the SAS.

A deft move left Prancer’s neck broken,
Then he grabbed for the gun and spun round.
Two perfect aimed gunshots with lightening speed
Sent the other two deer to the ground.

The teenagers out with their parents
Would disparage this scene as a rule,
But were forced to revise their opinions
And reclassify Santa as ‘cool’.

The Police and our Santa, they counted
The venison there laying dead.
'We’ve got eight but, shit, there’s one missing.
Where the bugger is Rudolf?’ they said.

They quickly glanced back down the High Street.
The vehicle still by the bank lay.
‘He’s the driver’, they suddenly realised,
As the getaway van sped away.

It raced off at full speed towards them,
The Police and our Santa fired lead.
The van hit a tree and exploded,
The last robber-reindeer was dead.

Two pensioners spoke in a doorway:
‘Now somehow it seems to me, dear,
That Christmas, as well as expensive,
Is rather more violent, this year.’