Christmas Tree

O christmas tree O christmas tree
your solid pot with plastic gyros
is sprouting furs of nettle green,
your bottom belly's a shock of quills,
the feathered ends of clay pidgeons
that left their tails to alley cats.
Your spindle arms' synthetic nibs
are clothed in factory rushes,
the skeleton beneath your coat
is the dull cell of a tinsel soul.
Your lights like droopy bluebells
lie laughing around your neck,
a wreath of blue, a twisted wire
creeping to your cardboard skull,
shining from the punctured eyes.
A sombrero skewiff on your head
in rainbow colours of adobe walls
casts you as the christmas witch.
The angel of empty ashtrays,
leaning, a gin-drunk crone,
dribbling curses in the corner.
But you slump your head
in the direction of Bethlehem.