SANTA CLAUS OR WAS HE?
A dead-ringer for Santa (‘The job has been done…”)
thought on a bit further (“Think I’ll have me some fun…”)
So he ‘phoned Holly Berry:
coquettish and pretty,
and he honed her a poem:
a neat, witty ditty.
They met up that evening
and he plied her with sherry –
put logs on the fire:
the scene was so merry!
The music played soft;
the atmosphere dreamy.
Holly was curvaceous – her skin oh so creamy…
But Santa, it proved, was not as he seemed,
and the end of the evening was not how he dreamed…
Holly pulled out a gun, and said:
“Mister you’re rumbled!”
Shocked, he fell off the couch
and on the floor tumbled…
“You’re not Holly Berry! Oh dear me, oh my!”
“No, you false Father Christmas,
I am a mint spy!”