Monday, December 27, 2004

Father Christmas Must Die

Father Christmas is a lie,
A gift wrapped up in red.
Rosy cheeked phantom,
Saint Nic a long time dead.

Fine example of generosity,
As his wrapped gifts are dropped
Down the chimneys of the homes
Of privileged little tots.

So when they ask why the poor,
Don't have Santa too,
More lies must be invented,
To cover up the true.

That Father Christmas is no more
The hero Santa Claus.
Consumer society has adopted him,
And used him for their cause.

A logo, branded image
For shops to sell their stuff.
A messed up folklore legend,
Redesigned with soft white fluff.

Why do we still use him?
What purpose does he serve?
Other than to say that lies,
Have some valid worth.

The tale of old Saint Nic,
Still can have its place,
In story books and tales told,
Of why we still embrace.

The time of giving every year,
To mark the caring season,
The joy of sharing what we have,
For no selfish reason.

As for teaming him with faith,
What an odd way to tie,
Faith and lies on the same day,
Father Christmas must now die.

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