I’m only a poor little fairy,
Stuck up on the top of the tree,
My wand’s bent and old,
It’s covered in mould,
or it was 'til it fell in Gran's tea.
I’m buried in pinecones and needles,
They’re sharp and uncomfortable too,
There’s a light made of glass
sticking right up … behind me,
I feel for the turkey; I do.
My poor plastic face is all dirty,
There are beer stains all over my dress
I was almost kaput,
when the dog ate my foot,
And then had to go off to the vets.
At the bottom of somebody’s garden,
I could live like a fairy would like,
I could hover and swoop,
On wings that don’t droop,
And sit out on toadstools all night.
So when Christmas is chaos and trauma,
And drunk auntie Vi makes you curse,
Think fondly of me,
Stuck up here in the tree,
And enjoy. It could always be worse!