The creeping sense of Christmas
Has snuck right into town
With lights, music, bargains,
Folks striding up and down
In streets crammed tight with expectation,
Spectres of anticipation
Motivating urgent souls
In pursuit of ultimate retail goals,
Each arm’s-length list of great ideas
Tended with care to avoid the tears
Without, ‘tis hoped, the liquidation
Of the family’s financial situation.
The tender threat of bankruptcy
Is really not the point, you see,
Much less the spread of winter woe
Letters written in innocent hope
Of Santa’s knowledge in retail’s scope
Prompting each reluctant scribe
To do their best (or maybe bribe..?)
To list in finest copper-plate
Things to make their Christmas grrrreat!
And left strategically to be read
By pinning them to the end of the bed.
But even with the tinsel glistening,
It’s quietly obvious
Santa may not be listening…
No need. It’s said he knows first hand
Vexations with our fellow man:
Understanding how we’ve failed,
All mitigation unavailed,
Those lists composed in childish hope
A metaphoric microscope
To magnify our innocence
And everything it represents.
That in the end, the doing of good
Is done for itself, not ‘cos we should.
Nothing fancy, nothing clever.
Just simple will for human endeavour.
Sooo much money. So many headlines. Too uncomfortable to read…