Simon Armitage

I play Solitaire on the computer and sweep the floor with myself.
To enhance the mood, I’ve strung fairy lights across the bookcase
and pinned a sprig of mistletoe over the door.
It’s fancy dress, and I’ve come as Björn Borg circa 1978 –
the trademark headband keeping my straggly blond fringe out of my eyes.
I pull down my tight white shorts,
sit on the flatbed scanner and photocopy my bits. Hilarious.
Swigged from the cap of the bottle a small tot of single malt
eases the mind, yet these flashing reindeer antlers
feel like a sparrow hawk perched on my scalp.
The art of pulling my own cracker
is something I’ve mastered over the years;
I win a plastic magnifying glass and a funny joke about skeletons.
Trivia fact: Rudolph et al must have been females,
since the bulls of the species shed their horns in early winter.
I have the beginnings of an idea for a short, unrhymed piece
about the melting of the polar ice caps,
but there’s no way I’m putting pen to paper right now, in my free time.
I climb on the desk and let rip with the guitar solo to end all guitar solos,
teased from the strings of my traditional wooden racket.