Santa'd scoffed far too much cake

becoming wobbly and vastly stout.

From his sled he toppled into a lake

seen by gypsy poachers, who hauled him out

 

His reindeer landed ever so frantic

to see him carried to the camp,

grumbling about this latest antic,

still just alive but freezing damp.

 

His saviours brewed a herbal potion,

never once letting him out of sight.

Tucked him in bed with great devotion,

all hoping he'd survive the night.

 

On Christmas Day he woke up hale,

'no presents this year, how they'll frown',

he gasped out with a desperate wail,

but the gypsies hadn't let him down!

 

'The reindeer knew your route so well,

entering homes right up our street.

We drove your sleigh like bats from hell,

so every gift arrived toot sweet!'

 

Santa relaxed in the gypsies' den,

roast pheasant with spuds was great good cheer,

(no problem procuring another hen,)

then was packed off home in charge of the deer.

 

He's promised to diet before next year!