Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Christmas 2002


We don’t mean to make your Christmas blue,

But we wanted to update you on our 2002.

And we hope this annual spam

Won’t automatically end up in the garbage can.

 

There isn’t enough room for us to sing

The praises of a Disney World trip this spring

But everyone’s demands keep mountin’

To tell of our ride on Splash Mountain.

 You see Granny Audrey is tough to scare.

Unless she thinks you plan to muss her hair.

And her tongue really started to lash

When she saw why the mountain is called Splash

 

The next week, if you please,

Was spent in the Florida Keys.

Some might prefer to have gone golfin’,

But we went swimming with dolphins.

 

Here, about Neil’s knee, is the skinny.

He was in the clear to ski, play tennis and shinny

Since all this hasn’t changed his ability to skate.

Perhaps at hockey he isn’t all that great.

 

Here is a story you’ll really like.

Wanda took a course on how to mountain bike.

While it did clear up some downhill confusions.

Several falls resulted in magnificent contusions.

 

You must know of Kayla our loveable mutt.

Well, her hair hasn’t come back since her spring cut

So that people don’t think we are Samoyed owners careless.

We tell them her breed is Siberian Hairless.

 

Glub, glub, glub.

The girls have joined a swim club.

Now their breast and back stroke

Are nothing of which to joke.

 

Once again we went to the coast

Where we enjoy our vacations the most.

The island called Saltspring

Is the latest for which we have a thing.

 

Heather is fast approaching 5 feet.

Which is really quite neat.

But as she grows and grows

She has begun to wear Mum’s clothes.

 

Hannah has really begun to flower.

As she reads Harry Potter by the hour.

Soon she too will start to probe

The depths of Wanda’s wardrobe.

 

As you may very well know

Fernie has next to no snow.

Let’s cheer on the coming of the Grizz,

And hope he hasn’t lost his fizz.

 

Well that’s the end of our Christmas epistle.

And you probably want to whistle

On reaching the end of his literary gristle

And news of all the Watson drivel.

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