In nineteen eighty-two, we awaited Christmas
A monster left. Another stood to say, “He was…”
And we all shouted: “Santa Claus” for his fair skin.
What we knew not was him sucking our country thin.
Now, left with just the skeleton, we dwell in hope
The king waved us goodbye while slipping down the slope
Breaking the dawn for a golden age at fifty
From whence all we’ll know is bliss and nothing filthy
We’ve left to rot in the tropical rain forest
As our way to give dictacracy heart arrest
Resting our hopes and case so their kind sticks not nose
In this glorious dream of ours that shan’t call for prose
To tell tales of Santa Claus going off his route
And inviting from every scribe’s pen a big pout
But scribbles of lofty smiles with roses brightened
With bobbed national joys on the ranges heightened.
12/18/2009
