The Wicked Fairy at the Manger

My gift for the child:

No wife, no kids, home;
No money sense.  Unemployable.
Friends, yes.  But the wrong sort –
The workshy, women, wimps.
Petty infringers of the law, persons
With notifiable diseases.
Poll tax collectors, tarts:
The bottom rung.
His end?
I think we’ll make it 
public, prolonged, painful.

Right, said the baby.  That was roughly
what we had in mind.

U. A. Fanthorpe