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Waiting here for Wenceslas and
I thought I’d seen his carriage pass
but
I must have been mistaken.

The old King from a Christmas time
who cast his story far and eyed the
caravan,
though not a holy man he saw significance in t
he star that danced above his head.

If he ever lived he’s dead by now,
a lone line in a Carol tells of how and
who he was.

It’s going to be December soon and still no
council flat nor a room to let except in the
private sector at an absorbitant rent,
it strikes me that the system’s bent
in favour of not me.

What Yuletide glee?
what home for me
I’ll spend it under canvas
relying on some charity to
feed me
who needs me when they’re having
party fun?

Wenceslas didn’t come
a king that’s unreliable?
that my dears is
undeniable

It’ll be Summer
there will be Sun
and I’ll forget
he didn’t come
unless
things change.

I meant exorbitant but perhaps absorbitant is a better word if there is such a word

© 2017, John Smallshaw.