Unwrapping a Winter's Tale

The temperature’s dropping, I’ve finished me shopping.  On to the wrapping?  It’s energy sapping.    As I log off Yule log on.  There’s no panto-rhyme nor reason, even though ‘tis the season. Season your stuffing, no huffing or puffing, don’t blow the house down, Sprouts and stuffing, it’s all for nothing.  Take the strain on the gravy train.  Through the dusk comes Mr Musk following yonder tesla.  Where to park it?  Not Common Market.  The turkey’s basted, Granny’s wasted, few have tasted. Don’t pinch Mother Goose.  Take off Bake off  a big cash rake off.  What a to do – NHS queue.  We all need to dash less but now we’re going cashless.  Be festive not restive, oh come all ye fateful.  Song sung wearily on high.  Some sang Samsung, why phone iPhone?  Levelling up means fill your cup, dumbing down will make you frown.  In the bloke midwinter, violent night. It’s a government damper – they’ve hidden the hamper.  Jeremy Vine is a true mulled whine, it’s VAR for Andrew Marr.  Going forward, they’re all backward.  In the gutter?  Press that shutter, iPod tripod, Pentax syntax, our fate is sealed – no depth of field.  Don’t ever suppose just strike a pose, lick your lips, devour your chips, don’t back blip black blips.  Sing carols, Andrew Bansmorals.  Hunt the thimble, bash the humble, trash the doleful, government cuts – they’ll roast your nuts.  Have a new buy in Dubai.  The Gov’t swoops and off it troops to its WhatsApp group.  Putin on the Ritz – it gets on your tits.  Glitz and glitter, report it on Twitter.  The green agenda is in a blender.  On the first day of Blipmas my rude love gave to me a garter in a shoe tree,  two rural choughs, a pre-lunch blend, four calling nerds, five whole lings, six queasy weans, seven Swansea women, eight moods o’ Milton Keynes, line dancing ladies, then hoards all vaping, Leven hikers biking, self drammers dramming .  Drop your glitter resolve to get fitter – chase the cooncil gritter, you’ll end up bitter, pick up that litter.  Another year is yet to come – Santa’s bumbag is full of humbug.   It’s a downward spiral, man’s gone viral, there’s been no revival.  A Gov’t probe?  No, reboot the globe.  A Happy Blipmas to all you Blippers, wherever you may be.