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In times like this when wishes fly
Like ghosts into the night
I try to keep the simple things
Within my daily sight

The warmth of hearth and home
And of my friends far flung
The spirit of this holiday
And why these songs are sung

If we could keep within us
This joyous state of mind
And give it willingly away
Then each day would be kind

No more anger or abuse
No need to raise a hand
No fearing for our loved ones
But peace throughout the land


When you greet a stranger
Who’s wearing a big frown
Show him what a smile looks like
And turn his frown around

These thoughts I send to everyone
At work or at your play
I hope you will remember
The way you feel today

Keep this Christmas joy and cheer
In spring summer and fall
Every day throughout the year
And share with one and all

Copyright 2006 John W. Selleck

I like to write as well. Stuff like this.

We called him Howie The Pox because he spends more money on doctors and penicillin than he does on the whores and bars that infect him. If he’d stop describing the sexual sewer in his underwear every time he contaminated his cock, we would’ve been kinder and named him Mattress Back Howie, or Bareback Howie, or Howie The Little Fat Fucking Steam Engine. But as he won’t keep his unhealthy discharges to himself, fuck him, he’s Howie“The Pox”

Sunday. 11am. Jesters Cafe

My business partner is already sitting down and half way through his daily English breakfast when I get there, rivulets of sweat tracing the wheezing fat bastard’s jaw-line before falling off his chin onto the table. In Howie’s defence, Phnom Penh is fucking hot sometimes.

“Saw your ex last night.” he says, eyes fixed on his food.

I drag out a chair and sit. “Which one?”

“One that bought The Juice Box.” Howie looks up searching for a waitress and waves one over.“She looks good.”

I’m not interested in talking about my fucking ex. I order two beers from the approaching pair of tits and avoid the topic.

“When we on for?”

“One o’clock. Gonna be alright , Tony. Got the bloke at the airport tucked away just nice. And our fella at the hospital says he can strip twenty grand worth of meds every few months, no problem. Just the two kids drivin’ the shit into Thailand to worry about really”

No, me and Howie The Pox won’t be invited to your kids school to give a fuckin’ careers talk.

Howie stands up and I’m not sure if the stain on his pants is sweat and breakfast, or the blooming signs of another bout of the clap. If the latter, I’m sure I’ll fucking hear all about it.

I know, it's a sappy Christmas poem. Maybe you'll appreciate these songs a little more, co written with a friend from Scotland:
https://www.soundclick.com/html5/v4/pla ... ID=4971761
https://www.soundclick.com/html5/v4/pla ... ID=4978023