Twelfth night
Twelve partridges, tasty enough, prefer turkey myself,
twenty-two turtle doves, flown back to Namibia,
thirty hens, hope the fox enjoyed French cuisine,
thirty-six birds, dawn calling in my neighbour’s silver birch,
forty rings, flaking fake gold leaf onto Grandma’s curtains,
forty-two geese, laying low in Aunt Louisa’s freezer,
forty-two swans, set free before I’m taken to the Tower,
forty maids, or so they claim but could be milking it,
thirty-six ladies, lap dancing round the nearest Pole,
thirty lords, made it to the House in leaps and bounds,
twenty-two drummers, upping trade for the girls above,
twelve pipers, putting a finishing touch to the Epiphany cake,
leaving a dozen saplings and the promise
of a decent crop of Williams long after the wassailing’s
a tinsel memory.