The men are putting decorations on the pub
The coloured lights, the snowmen and the seven dwarves
They found dirt cheap at St Augustine’s car boot sale
“It’s too commercial now” says Arthur nailing up
A garish trumpet blowing angel on the roof.
“It’s lost all meaning” antiphones his mate
Holding still the ladder and handing up the bulbs.
“Where shall we put the star? There’s no more room up here.”
They nail it in the vacant space above the door.
“It starts so early now that come December’s end
The gloss has quite gone off it. Shall we have a beer?”
Going inside, they leave, for anyone who cares to see,
A star that gives a welcome to the inn.
An angel floating up against the star filled sky.