Too Much of a Good Thing

At first it was all rather sweet:

Christmas morning – the partridge, the pear tree

The little tub.

I’d only had the tinsel tree before.

Very thoughtful.

Our first Christmas and he couldn't be with me -

Just the sort of consideration I like.

But by New Year's Eve matters were rather serious –

The place was like an aviary

Trust him to be too logical.

Seven partridges, twelve turtle doves

Fifteen French hens, sixteen colly birds,

Twelve geese all a-laying and no market for the eggs

And Seven swans a-swimming in the bath.

The pear trees bowing out onto the landing.

The carpet suffered and the neighbours complained

And after that it just got worse.

So now, with a dozen drummers;

Twenty-two pipers sounding like the Mod at Oban;

Thirty lords a-leaping all over the place,

None of them easy to catch and coronets landing everywhere;

Thirty-six ladies in four-and-a-half eightsomes prancing

To the pipes and drums;

Forty milkmaids, cows and stools and pails and the men

from the Milk Marketing Board and the RSPCA;

And two hundred – and-twenty-four birds of one kind of another;

No chance of a bath; no desire even

To walk in my pear-tree orchard,

Not nearly enough room to kill and each a partridge…

Next year I’ll take him to a hotel for Christmas.

PS. Does anyone know of a bigger flat?

We’ve got forty gold rings for a deposit.

Just the two of us, and one of the pipers.