Santa’s Beard

Exhausted by the hectic pace
Of westbound circumglobal race
A worn out Claus sank grateful down to rest
Each year it was a thing close run
To keep ahead and beat the sun
To longitude degrees one-eighty west.

But despite his labours weary
Old Santa felt quite cheery
In point of fact the dear old chap was merry
For each household, for surprise
Had left him out mince pies
Likewise a glass or two of port or sherry.

He laid him down to rest
And soon was snoring with the best
Exhaling a strong alcoholic haze
But alas! Before in turning
He had left the candle burning
And whoosh! The fumes went up in fearsome blaze.

But that fire, when extinguished
Of his beard once so distinguished
Had left no trace, no not a single crumb
Of that growth once boldly fluffed
There remained not one small tuft
His chin was left bald as a baby’s bum.

So when you with your families
Go to Harrods or to Hamley’s
Or other Christmas celebrating store
Where Santa in has flown
See him seated on his throne
Examine if you will his hairy jaw.

Let your fingers intertwine
Within that thatch so fine
Then give that wondrous growth a mighty pull
And that beard so seeming grand
Will come off in your hand
For Santa’s beard’s now made of cotton wool.