Geezers Of Nazareth

I know the decorations must be somewhere,
seen photographs of when I'd fixed them up,
and memories are drawing-pinned there with them,
a yesterday from which I'll take a sup.

I watched and wished a big star in the night sky
from childhood tales of Christmas just begun,
and underneath a smile I had forgotten,
I trekked back to the birthplace of his son.

The roads were just a mud patch, dried and stony,
the king would surely never venture here,
but sure enough old Elvis rocked the manger,
and three wise men at least, broke out the beer.

I caught a glance, some fat bloke in a window,
dressed up in green, he punched his mobile's text,
it isn't true, he said, but …what the Dickens,
that’s Santa, selling gifts to undersexed.

Outside the corner tent, Patel was cursing,
his luck was low, and pine trees touched the sky,
he also stacked up angels and some starlight,
and paper chains, but no one knew quite why.

Then up the road came shepherds drunk on sheep dip,
each sang their hallelujahs and passed wind,
they'd come in fancy dress, geezers of Nazareth,
and as they stormed the barn, the wise ones thinned.

Each squinted in the candle brightened hay stack,
a child was born, sang Mathis (to their shock),
they all got down and partied with old Mary,
and Joseph pulled some JD from his frock.

I heard that some years later, short on shekels,
young Jesus (who'd been inside left for Rome),
signed books, and balls to anyone he'd hated,
his online blogging buzz, slid to a drone.

Now leaning on this lamp post, where once gas light
would rest its glow on hardened, weary souls,
take note from lowly ancients and their fan base,
and write yourself a bible, don't score goals.

Jerry Pike