A Surreal Solstice
Twas solstice eve and through the surreal house, all the creatures were stirring, penguins and ants, aardvarks and saints.
The vuvuzelas were stacked by the chimney with care, ready for blowing and buzzing to cheer St. Chrysalis when he trips down the stairs.
The children cast aspersions, and ate crinkled corn, and some danced like St. Elvis, and some like Rip Torn
And I in my bowler, and my wife in her cape, were waltzing and weaving, napping and knitting, hither and yon, till nowhere was safe
Out on the lawn, we heard such a platter, as if St Elvis had come, to help us with our hip shaking and vuvuzela noise making and matter.
We hoped for St. Elvis, with his white jumpsuit a tatter, looking much fatter, to sing solstice songs like Hound Dog and Return to Sender.
The children sprayed us with cognac, and the vulvuzelas buzzed on their own, and a dozen tiny elven Elvises, leaped out of the phone.
A surreal Christmas to all, sang each miniature Elvis, with a very real shake of each miniature pelvis, penguins dancing in time.
All soon were shaking and singing, each fur-covered spoon, and each fur covered cup, wishing us a surreal solstice and a very long night.
