T'was the Night We Call Christmas

Clement Clarke Moore's famous "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" reshaped a little.

This Christmas, as you tuck into turkey in the safety and comfort of your own home, spare a little thought in this festive season of goodwill to all for those whose Christmas will be just another nightmare.

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Twas the night we call Christmas, And all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, Not even a mouse.
The children lay dying, their parents were dead,
There was no pudding, there was no bread.

Their stomachs distended, their eyes just a glaze,
They’d eaten nothing, nothing for days.
There were no presents, wrapped in a bow,
No crackers to pull, no songs about snow,

The water had gone, the medicine too,
the diarrhea had not, though the spasms were few.
Jolly Old St Nicholas, did not visit there,
And a world celebrating, declined to care.

Twas the night we call Christmas, And all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The bottles were slung, on the floor without care,
And stale cigarette smoke hung on the air

The children were quiet, though not asleep,
Even too frightened to cry or to weep.
The mother lay still, and wondered how long
The family would last, she must be strong.

The husband lay still, a heap on the floor,
Drunk and unconscious, yelling no more.
Frustrations suppressed, anger subdued,
Troubles forgotten, till tomorrow renewed.

No Christmas cards hanging, Just bills overdue,
No job and no future, in the dole queue.
Jolly Old St Nicholas, did not visit there,
And a world celebrating, declined to care.

Twas the night we call Christmas, And all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The mother lay silent, eyes open wide.
But though she was breathing, there was no-one in side.

The father lay still, in a dreamless sleep,
But soon he would wake again, only to weep.
The knock on the door, that they’d been waiting to hear,
Had filled their hearts to the brim with despair.

Their world lay in pieces, a couple alone,
The daughter they loved, would never come home,
None of their friends, know what to say,
So they leave them to cope, alone everyday.

A road toll statistic, a common enough death,
A line in the paper, a family bereft.
Jolly Old St Nicholas, did not visit there,
And a world celebrating, declined to care.

Twas the night we call Christmas, And all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The bombs had all fallen, the night became calm,
And just for a while, no-one did harm.

Even the orphans had fallen asleep,
As images of their parents, danced in their sleep.
A shot echoed somewhere, a cry in the night,
Another dead soldier, to not carry on the fight.

An elderly woman, lies on the floor,
Softly crying, and watching the door.
The moon shining brightly, a ghost in the sky,
Then all of a sudden, a harsh screaming cry.

Bombs crashing, More danger, More Panic, More Killing
Shame on it, Oh stupid, Oh dumber blitzi-krieging.
To the victor, the spoils, to the victor the oils Now dash away, dash away, dash away hope.

And Suicide bombers, light up the sky
And the rest of the world, pretends not to know why.
Jolly Old St Nicholas, did not visit there,
And a world celebrating, declined to care.

And a world celebrating, declined to care.

Fung Glui Cried

Fung Glui had the sort of face that looked depressed. Even when he was happy, he had the countenance of one who was thinking that it was all going to go down the drain at any minute.

So when it was announced that the end of the world was coming, no one was surprised to see Fung Glui looking miserable. In fact, amongst the angst and distress that the forthcoming total destruction was bringing ahead of the actual event, it was quite easy to lose him in the crowd.

But Fung Glui was more than miserable. He was more than depressed. Fung Glui felt that his entire being was already dead. And he had good reason to feel that way.

He looked about the world around him and saw his family - moaning and wailing. "It's the end of us all" they cried. "We're all going to be killed" they sobbed. He couldn't really blame them, but ...

When he went out into the street, he saw a local shop keeper smashing jars of pickles on the floor. "All going to be destroyed" the man kept repeating, "All going to be destroyed. My business that I worked so hard to build" - smash a jar - "totally wiped out" - smash a jar - "My life savings gone" - smash a jar - "it's the end of my world". Fung Glui walked on past the man, keeping his distance. He couldn't really blame the man, but ...

A little further on a couple of young people were drinking and obviously out of control. "Fun before the end of the planet" they sang. They seemed to have lost their despair in their intoxication but Fung Glui could see the sadness that remained soberly in their eyes. He couldn't really blame then, but ...

Two very old men were sitting on the side of the road. They were talking of the past; of their lives; of their childhood. "I did so many things and saw so many things" one said to the other, "but now it's all going to be lost. My memories will die with the world" he said. "Mine too" said the other. "It's a calamity - it's terrible" and they both shook their heads. "It's the end of the world" they said together and put their heads in their hands. Fung Glui bowed at them with respect as he passed. He couldn't really blame them, but ...

A mother and father were cradling their children. The mother was sobbing, the children were crying and the father was ashen faced. "They'll never see the mountains. They'll never swim in our beautiful lakes" wept the mother. "They could have grown up to create beautiful works or art or wonderful machines" said the father, his voice breaking. He rocked his child in his arms and the mother clung to hers tightly as if to protect them from the unstoppable destruction. Fung Glui felt his eyes moisten. He couldn't really blame them, but ...

There was a hill where Fung Glui liked to sit. He thought he'd sit there now - it would be his last chance. He climbed the grassy slope to the top and sat down on the apex. From here, he could look down into the town at the villages weeping and crying, getting drunk, fighting and generally lamenting the loss of their village; their world; their lives.

But he didn't look down on them. He looked instead upwards. Up there, in the sky, was where the end would come - as certainly as this morning had come, as certainly as tomorrow morning would not. He thought of the villagers as he looked up - no, he couldn't really blame them, but ... they were so insular, so self-oriented. True, it was the end of their business. It was the end of their village. It was the end of their lives, of their children's lives. True, it was the end of their culture, of their history and of their world.

But it was not just their world.

For 'end of the world' was not the correct words - this was not what was going to happen. It was the end of the universe.

And, for the end of the universe, Fung Glui cried.