This Flea on Me

by Wesli Court

With apologies to the shade of Thomas Wyatt

This Flea on me can sometimes make me nauseous —
My smelly feet, my sock hung on my bedroom
Mantelpiece. I hope that Santa Claus
Approaches cautiously when he does come,
For there’s the sense of an impending doom
As though the Magi face uncertain danger
If they do not tiptoe towards the Manger.

I loathe my luckless stars, those twinkling eyes
That wink at me up there in that celestial
Darkness just as though I’d won a prize
And not the Xmas present to appall
Granddad Time wrapped in his winter shawl
Who sighs because he knows something’s amiss
But is so addled he can’t think what it is.

It’s all a dream! I’d lay abroad if waking,
But in my sleep I’m full of fecklessness
And nothing is in sight that’s worth the taking.
That Flea still bites me in this bedly mess
Encompassing me in its tangledness.
I think that Santa Claus has got a nerve
Not to arrive on time and show some verve.

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