I open the door to find Papa dressed as Santa,
trousers round his pale, freckled ankles,
bellowing a loose instrumental pastiche of Jingle Bells
while urinating into the fireplace.
He peers over his shoulder,
eyes like electrical fires:
'I'm sober as a fucking judge,' he breaths,
unsmiling, his piss striking the hearth,
sending up flames purple as cracker hats.