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‘Twas The Fight Before Christmas

A one horse open slay.

Photo of Christmas Living Room

Twas the fight before Christmas, when all through the house
The conversation was turning to your future spouse.
A husband with whom you would make a good pair,
In hopes that by next year your bedroom he’d share.

The prospect of marriage, it fills you with dread,
Though visions of wedding vows dance in nan’s head.
Still deep in the closet, you don’t want a chap,
To settle down with a family feels like a trap.

When out in the hall, your mum starts to natter,
“What exactly are pronouns, I don’t understand her?”
Next year you’ll bet on it, you’d make some cash,
Misgendered before twenty minutes have passed.

Then dinner is served, to the table you go,
Spoon on turkey and veg till your plate overflows.
When, what to your wandering ears should you hear,
But the voice of your auntie as she whispers, ‘dear’

‘Do you need all those roasties, you’ll make yourself sick’,
(How else did she think your ass was so thicc?).
More rapid than be-reals her judgments came in,
Try keto, raw vegan, or low-carb to be thin!

“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top in a panic you flew,
With a head full of comebacks that you’ll never use.

And then, in a echo, a voice so aloof,
‘Sexist? It can’t be!’, now granddad wants proof.
As you draw in a breath, and Prosecco you down,
You descend from the stairs, your lips turned in a frown.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
To fit with his catchphrase: ‘give all vegans the boot!’
Right-wing support he proclaimed without lack,
Though the whole cabinet should be given the sack.

His eyes-how they squinted! his nostrils, how hairy!
His cheeks were like roses, after a couple of sherries!
His pursed little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
Soon to unravel with misogyny in tow.

Conversation dies down, but as for your health,
Your thoughts start to spiral, must calm yourself!
Every Christmas your family get in your head,
The questions they ask always fill you with dread.

You speak not a word, feel your duty you shirk,
Whilst you lie on the sofa, guilt starts to lurk.
You dream about next year, falling into a doze,
When you’ll give a speech on all things you oppose!

There’s so much to say, but no-one who will listen,
And truly there’s no good advice to be given.
There’s no need to explain, nor to be polite,
So Happy Christmas to you, and to you a good night!

Written By

Hi, my name is Mads Brown (they/them). I'm a third-year English Literature student at University College London. I write for the Culture board at Trill Mag, and my favourite topics to cover are literature and the arts. Alongside writing, I really enjoy theatre, playing guitar, and walks in nature.

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