In stall number one's balls
with rum (what else). The boxes tootle:
Oh you silent, holy night.
The second Boasting
mulled wine with and without fruit. In the notes
the electric candles varies a man (The Fritz!)
The clammy fingers around his mug, his nose red.
Another one reveler is in the gutter,
thundering full. (Or is it dead?)
At Bude three can be plagued by the stomach with sausage butcher Kluge.
burn behind the windows of houses lights. One occasionally sees
faces gaze up at the weather. The play
Schulze times today Mau Mau.
Mr. Mayer-Lutz beats his wife. (Like almost every weekend.)
And Grandma Lise waits in vain for peace. (For more than fifty years ago. They had only one son.)
When Mr. Schulz children sleep
he surfs for "Geile-tits-larvae"
and his wife, the Sunday roast to roast.
are eight to Bude's tea with rum, I take a sip
and turn around. Then I waved a shining light.
The wings spread wide, festgetackert the smile.
And over her head (I swear!) There with the brat
a real halo. "Hosanna," she sings.
But somehow it seems out of tune.
Mrs. Finke sips from Met the shoes of Mrs. Motz.
Knecht Ruprecht pukes, Santa Claus laughs.
Oh you silent, holy night.
© Simone wedge