The Plight Before Christmas

A poem by John Drake

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
Then with a rattle and audible click,
a door it squeaked open - its movement not slick.

In stepped a maiden of visible class,
except for her grimace-mouth tasting of brass.
"Why not use her hand on the knob?" they declared.
But her hands are behind her, in canvas ensnared!

A high-collared jacket in the aforementioned material,
Has her in its folds, an experience surreal!
The room's full of mirrors and brightly lit,
Confirming her worst fears, she exclaims;

Greg seemed such a nice guy - how was she to know,
That asylum restraints on her he'd bestow?
A few drinks they had shared, then back to his flat,
But she'd gotten quite drowsy, passing out during chat...

By images of herself she was now surrounded,
Their appearance quite shocking for someone so grounded.
Pointy-toed ankle boots, high-heeled now encased
Her fishnet-clad legs, she visibly grimaced!

Elasticated suspenders supported her hose,
over red frilly knickers; "HELL'S BELLS! They are gross!"
Of her svelte trouser-suit its presence was nil;
"I look like a nutter! From Benny Hill!"

The stockings just weren't her, alas and alack,
And she teetered around to see seams down the back!
She squirmed and wriggled, scowling with jaw-set,
Her hindered breathing indicating a corset!

"This just isn't me!" she wailed at her doubles,
And hopping and jerking she swore at her troubles.
Across to the window for help she would cry,
But a blank wall o'er the alley, confronted her eye!

Who would she call to? How could she escape?
The redhead still hoped this a mere curious jape . . .
Could she use persuasion? Could he be reasonable?
Trussed up like a turkey she looked strangely seasonal!

The Scots-girl's wriggling was frenzied - he was surely malign?
Then a voice called out; "Siobhan, you'll miss the mulled wine!"
She backed to the wall; "Get this off me!" she pleaded.
But his hands were upon her, through the canvas he kneaded!

"I don't like this at all!" she declared with a sniff,
"But it's not Christmas without wrapping!" he quipped at his gift.
Steering her to the door and back to his couch,
He'd done this before, of that she would vouch!

The fire crackled and roared to the side of his desk,
In other circumstances it would be picturesque.
A mince pie he fed her, along with some wine,
The decorations glittered, they'd taken some time!

She felt herself warm up, the wine had a zing,
Though here she was, bound up like Tara King!
More hugs than the canvas he gave her, the cad!
But now she started to feel this wasn't too bad...

Return to the Stories Page