Santa at bay
What do you expect of me?
To humour you for a christmas corrupted and commercialised to death?
To drive around with my reindeers in a world without snow
where you have ruined the whole climate with your pollution?
To be happy and laugh that silly old ho!ho!ho! in all your din
of deafening noise shouting down all that sounded good
and accept that you have turned christmas into a prostitution
of all that was lovely and nice about the holidays
by your bloody vulgar shit publicity and commercials,
which only has debased me into the greatest fool
of universal ridicule during the last 50 years?
To keep a shining jolly face amidst all your warring
when your society only is good for burning people out,
when christmas trees hardly can grow any more in your acid forests
where you have cut down almost every single wild tree,
and when you just ignore all your hospitalized victims buried alive
and dying while you just eat yourselves to vomit,
imagining you have a good time while all you produce is diarrhoeas?
No, the only proper thing about christmas nowadays
is the liquor and the wine, that at least you have that good sense
to drink yourselves unconscious in all your mad failures;
and don't expect any christmas presents from me this year
or any other year, don't expect to see me any more,
for I'll be on strike this christmas and forever
just sitting at home drinking.
Poetry by Christian Lanciai
Read 479 times
Written on 2007-12-15 at 22:13
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