Unlce Stan comes for Christmas

On the first day of Christmas I met my Uncle Stan. 

All dressed in blue he was, with skin like roasted ham. 

He flashed his silver pocket-watch and gave me a smile, 

And told me he intended to stay for a while. 

His waistcoat shone, his tie gleamed bright red, 

The same colour, I’ll wager, as Old St Nick’s sled. 

Dad welcomed him in with a face rather pale, 

As outside the rain it turned into hail. 

On the second day of Christmas it was still raining hard, 

Uncle Stan, my cellmate, passed me a Christmas card. 

Homemade it was and beautifully so, 

Inside was a cheque which made my jaw drop so low. 

Six thousand pounds he gave me, just out of the blue, 

When Dad heard this, his eyes filled up with rue. 

From Stan my Mum, she kept well away, 

Not a word they exchanged throughout the whole Day. 

This silence endured onto day three, 

When Uncle Stan made breakfast for Mum, Dad and Me. 

The bacon was burnt and the eggs they were raw, 

A taste of what Stan, for us, had in store. 

Dad choked down his meal, eyes burning with hate, 

So, Stan gave a sneer and gave Dad a fresh plate. 

The garden was flooded so we stayed in the house, 

That night I saw Uncle Stan kill a mouse. 

He crushed its skull beneath his polished shoe, 

Then scooped up its corpse to make “A surprise for you.” 

On the fourth day of Christmas this surprise made me scream, 

To this day the image conjures up bad dream after dream. 

The mouse replaced our angel on top of the tree, 

I confronted my Uncle as he was making some tea. 

He grinned at me, as though butter wouldn’t melt, 

This was only the beginning, that’s what I felt. 

Mum stayed in her room, all day and all night, 

Never before had my Dad looked so white. 

On the fifth morning of Christmas I heard Mum talking with Stan, 

She begged him: “Please leave us, you wicked Old man.” 

Uncle Stan simply chuckled, that laugh made Mum groan, 

My body, it shuddered, at the pain in that moan. 

The ceiling was leaking, as under the tree, 

I saw a pile of gifts for Mum, Dad and Me. 

On the sixth night of Christmas Stan invaded my room, 

With Mum as a bride and him dressed like a groom. 

Dad was the priest, with eyes full of tears, 

I was the best man, all riddled with fears. 

On the seventh day of Christmas my Dad disappeared. 

When I asked where he was my Uncle Stan sneered. 

He drank all my wine and ate our mince pies, 

And all through the carnage my Mother she cried. 

On the eighth day of Christmas Uncle Stan killed a fox, 

Snapped its neck in one go and from its pelt knitted socks. 

Ten socks in all, that he hung on the wall. 

“For Santa”, he whispered, “When he comes down to call.” 

On the ninth day of Christmas Stan exposed all the lies, 

Spun by my parents in a loving disguise. 

From Stan’s seed I was planted in Mum’s womb so bare, 

My Dad was a fraud, Stan revealed with a flair. 

No birds sang outside for the rain it did pour, 

And that night Stan made my Mother howl like a whore. 

On the tenth day of Christmas Mum took her own life. 

The eleventh day passed without any more strife. 

On the twelfth day of Christmas, Stan cooked me a meal, 

As he carved up my Dad, he offered up a deal. 

Devour my parents to pass his hideous test, 

Then his son I would be and that would be best. 

No pain would I know, no grief would I feel, 

Mother’s skin from her bone his teeth they did peel. 

I turned down his offer and just out of spite, 

I spat on his food and then he took flight. 

He fled into the night, screaming with rage, 

His plans all in tatters, solitude was his cage. 

Mum and Dad, he revived and the mouse breathed again, 

Now his gifts were no more and joy healed our pain. 

Uncle Stan was exiled, defeated, undone, 

Spurned by the truth that I wasn’t his son. 

His blood was for nought, futile terror he wrought, 

Reduced all his schemes to nothing but rot. 

My Mum was my Mum, my Dad was my Dad, 

Never could I love a creature that bad.  

So, we had a good Christmas, Mum, Dad and Me, 

Our house is the perfect size for us three. 

Our lesson’s been learnt, we now shun all things, 

Dressed in blue hiding poisonous stings. 

Upon evil our door has been quite firmly shut, 

No villain will make my Mother his slut. 

I never got to see Uncle Stan after that, 

Though I heard whispered rumour of his quarrels and spats, 

With neighbours and friends and family too, 

As they all soon wised up to that man so askew. 

He blew all his gold on whisky and fags, 

They say his nice suit has been reduced to mere rags, 

His sunken eyes pleading, 

His toothless gums bleeding, 

His unkempt nails scrabbling, 

His mad tongue always babbling, 

My rejection broke him, that’s what they stay, 

And frankly I hope that he gets stuck that way.



For night after night, since this December the first, 

Bad visions have plagued me, the worst of the worst, 

Of a shadow slithering up to our door, 

The shadow of he that made Mum his whore, 

He’ll still be wearing that foul suit so blue, 

He’ll whisper to me “It’s nice to see you.” 

He’ll come bearing gifts, all bloated with spite, 

And, this time, he’ll be ready to fight, 

He’ll spirit me away, deep into the sky,  

To the bad place where good things wither and die, 

He’ll make me his boy and raise me well too, 

Come next Christmas Eve it’ll just be us two, 

Alone in the clouds, my Uncle and I, 

Already I see him, tormenting my sleeping eye. 

Beware wicked Uncles, those most cunning ghouls 

That make mockeries of all us well-meaning fools.