(a/n - Giftfic for Macarons And Muffins. Happy Christmas. It is only short, but I've wanted to write somebody an Adrian style Christmas poem for a while now, to really embody how awfully hard he tries and yet how terrible his sense of rhythm and rhyme is. I hope you have a fabulous Christmas!)

A Christmas Composition

Look up at the sky, ye men of the Earth!

Bear witness to the symbol of the Lord Jesus' birth.

Snuggle with the family around the hearth,

And scorn ye men filled with foul mouthed mirth.

For upon the wings of God's angels we surf.

Noel! Noel! The children cry,

Listen to the cheers on this here nigh!

The angels float along up high

And with them tonight we are able to fly

For the babe has come whom for us will die.

Those shepherds sent a dear little lamb,

Those Magi sent all the riches they could cram,

And us, we shall send one another goodwill to all man,

For my brother and his business a shiny new van

And another great bucket for my dear old nan.

For unto us a child is born,

To rid yonder peasants of their scorn,

Alas read this verse on Christmas morn,

So children shan't look a dash forlorn

And smiles our faces will adorn!

Let this epic verse be read for miles!

To cast upon all its loves and smiles

Let its memory last as long as the sacred Nile,

And its stanzas float along the presents in piles;

A poem cannot ye men be stored in vials.

Adrian smoothed down his cravat and replaced the cap on his pen with a flourish. He had just composed the poem which was the sheer embodiment of Christmas, if you asked him, and, though he wasn't trying to be big headed, he felt Byron or Rossetti couldn't have done a better job of capturing the essence of the festive season into verse. The paper lay in front of him, smudges of ink upon his fingers and his name at the top right hand corner of the page.

The lights on the Christmas tree twinkled merrily behind him and he picked up the paper. He really wanted to read his poem right there and then, but he promised himself he would wait. Christmas Day was not that far away, and the family would enjoy the piece so much more if he read it to them on the day it was intended for. He headed up the stairs. He had to find a suitable place to store the composition, before somebody else found it and claimed it for their own. Good work was not safe anyway. And Adrian felt his Christmas composition was very good work indeed.

(a/n - told you Adrian couldn't write a decent Christmas poem didn't I? I do hope some of the terrible rhymes made you smile, and I hope next year is better than this year for you, and Santa brings you everything you want! ⌒.⌒)