The new dolls’ house family has a mother, a father, a baby and two kids.
There’s a dog made of wool with a red felt tongue.
Put a quilt on the bed, the baby in the bath, la de dah.
Mum in the kitchen, Dad in the lounge, la de dah.
Put some tinsel on a small green sprig
because it’s Christmas in the dolls’ house too.
Oh dear, Dad can’t stand up after all that beer.
The sister’s drowned the baby in the bath.
The dog has bitten Mum.
Mum has murdered Dad with a toothpick.
There’s blood on the stairs,
and the little boy is sitting on his bed,
his O of a mouth saying, “Oh.”
. . . . . .
This actually happened (years ago) in our daughter’s dolls’ house within its first few hours. The joys of older brothers! In fact, there have been a number of murders in our house at Christmas over the years. The most recent was in a gingerbread house wth food colourings. The younger brother egged on by the older one. The older one was very good at keeping his nose clean and letting the younger take the blame. They were adults by that time.
This Christmas their sons play together. Too young for murders.
We are celebrating a day early. Bring on the Champagne. Before there’s a murder. Not really. But really, we miss the ones we miss.
under an elf hat
sadness in the eyes
of the old dog