Dearest dearest Santa, so it’s New Years time once more,
Another Christmas come and gone, and mate, I’ll say, I’m sore.
I know you’d have me letter, I sent it Christmas Eve,
And I face another boatless year, without a bye you leave.
I know about that little boy who told you what he’d like,
Then the little boy asked Santa, “where IS my $#%^@ BIKE?”
I know the feeling that boy had of being left afloat,
So just like him I’m asking Fatso, where’s my #$%@# BOAT?
It’s fine for you, you’re stuck up there in all that ice and snow,
If you were even keen to fish you’d have no place to go.
But Crikey Santa, have a heart, I’m down here Queensland way,
I can’t pull on my uggies and go driving in my sleigh.
Fishing is the thing I do, it’s fun, it’s mine, it’s me,
While other people wish for other things under the tree
Like unused undies, socks or spanners, trousers or a coat.
I don’t- I’ll ask you once again you --e-mail address hidden-- my #$&%^# boat?
I know you know I know that you can’t always have your wish,
I think I know you know I know I cannot always choose to fish.
But come on Santa, surely with your waistline you can see,
The health and lifestyle benefits that fishing has for me?
I’m throwing out a cast net sweating rivers in the creeks,
Or baling out the tinny when it suddenly springs leaks.
The exercise is health enhancing, cures boils or bloat.
So Santa let me ask you – nicely - where’s my *&%^# boat?
You want me to be sick and weedy, sunless, spineless, flat?
When at my peak I’m fit as fido, reflexes like a cat.
If that’s your aim then let me tell you barge ar^%, you’re in luck,
Cause life without a boat is like a sweet without a suck.
I know my missus wanted me to have a boat again,
And wrote a lovely character reference, in purple marker pen.
She took the letter with her Santa, put it in the post.
That’s what she said she did. I trust her. Where’s my &^$%# boat?
She wouldn’t lie to me my missus, and so the letters sent,
So if it’s sent you got it, right? as sure as Guv’ment rent.
So what the hell has happened Santa did you even read it?
Or just say to those little buggers with you “he don’t really need it”?
I don’t really need it Santa? You’re a fat red clown,
You wouldn’t know if your bum was on fire, or what is up or down.
And let me tell you bigboy, let me make it good and clear,
|There’ll be hell to pay in S||nowland if it don’t turn up this year.|