BOXING DAY MORN.
 (Or is it an Ode to St. Stephens' Boxing Day Green.) 

Crackers burst 'n' Angels white,
Mallows,
And thatched Cottages,
On St. Stephens' day Green,
Chestnuts,
And woodchips smouldered
Well,
As I stepped forth,
And stopped for a Beer, 
Supping with the Laird,
At the turning of the year,
From snow drop,
To woodland colour,
And yet we were no wiser
A head of the gif bearing Magi.

Bayed our rampant Hounds,
And was it for the last?
This Boxing Day Morn,
Sounded off our Scarlet Coated Gentleman,
Readying himself for the chase,
Through bramble and thicket,
And wreathes of red,
Pure red,
And yet She would flow,
On and to where our river ran,
Faster,
And measureless to Man,
Then the Hunt had only just begun.

As I peered in longingly through the Windows
Of their World,
At Port 'n' Pies,
Punch 'n 'Hams,
And all manner of good Christmas Fair,
Blood would be spilt,
Time and again,
This Boxing Day Morn,
Whilst others would ring out the changes,
Through the deep and even,
On this St. Stephens' Boxing Day Green,
Two Woodcock appeared escaping the Beater's
And their guns,
Just as Others and been lead to the Sales!!
Sales!!
This Boxing Day Morn.