Thank You Mr Edison Poem by Brian Taylor

Jingle bells. Jingle bells
Jingle all the way.
Oh what fun it is to ride
On a one horse open sleigh!
Oh!

At the next bamboo table,
by a rustling opalescent sea,
four year old Bun,
armed with a red box
powered by two AA batteries,
is carving his private heaven
out of his familiar hell.
Continuously every five seconds.

After five minutes
it has repeated sixty times.
The neighbouring tables,
being teetotal,
are silenced.
The chairs uncomfortable.

After fifteen minutes
and one hundred and eighty repetitions,
the axe-head birds and birds of paradise
have given up.
Thais drinking mekhong
are murmuring in time,
if not in tune,
Jingen ben. Jingen ben.

After twenty minutes
and two hundred and forty repetitions,
the only competition
is the piped music
and the silver haired German
who is beating his wife
with airy gestures and
Ihre Tochter! Ihre Tochter! Ihre Tochter!

Fünf Minuten später,
Die Frau, too, is released
from her angst
by Santa’s mechanical jingling;
her husband becomes speechless.