’Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the city
It dripped grey and damp, not very pretty.
Butts filled the ashtrays, empties littered the room
Sure wish we’d tidied before going on Zoom.
The children tut-tutted and Aunt Grace muttered plenty
But what do they expect of Yule 2020?
After COVID and Fauci and “these unprecedented times”
Going treeless or gleeless don’t seem like great crimes.
But then out on the lawn there arose such a clatter
I lurched off the couch to see what was the matter.
Car thieves? Porch pirates? An anti-mask mob?
The thought of the latter made me choke back a sob.
Past plagues might have been spread by filth, fleas and rats
But we’ve got Google and tin-foil hats.
Yet the noise on my lawn wasn’t from that coalition
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny politicians,
With a sprightly driver, so lively and quick,
It might have been Santa – or Adrian Dix?
More rapid than eagles the politicians they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, LISA! now, HORGAN! now, ISITT and TRUDEAU!
On, BIDEN! on MERKEL! on, PUTIN and BOJO!
To the top of the polls! Your numbers will jump!
Vaccines for all! (Well, maybe not Trump.)”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the politicians they flew,
With pandemic-relief cheques for me and for you.
Feels good right now, although the sad fact is
They’ll pay for them with your grandchildren’s taxes.
But the future’s the future, don’t worry about that,
Down the chimney he came, scaring the cat.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his crown,
But not red and white, just a deep shade of brown.
And no big white beard, not even a goatee,
Don’t peek in his sack, kids: It’s Mr. Floatie!
His eyes – sewn-on fabric! his bow tie, absurd!
This wasn’t Santa, just a seven-foot turd!
I demanded to know: “Is this some sort of trick?
What have you done with our jolly St. Nick?”
“Santa’s just fine,” Floatie said in reply
“He’s over Nebraska, up in the sky.”
“It’s just that his schedule began to unravel
“With all the restrictions on cross-border travel.”
“But I had free time,” Floatie said with a bob.
“Since the sewage plant opened, I’ve been out of a job.”
“So I volunteered, as did Daisy the Cow,
“Marty the Marmot? He’s up there now.
“All of us mascots stepped up to bat,
“Of course led by Harvey, the HarbourCat.
“He may be dog-tired, his ears might be frozen,
“But he’s still up there soaring, over Metchosin.”
His words, they filled me with a warm sort of feeling
Like you get adding rum to your morning Darjeeling.
For here’s the truth, it’s not academic,
Together we’ll beat this global pandemic.
We’re all sick of six feet, of hand sanitizer,
Of awaiting our chance for a shot of the Pfizer,
Of arrows, of Netflix, of 3 p.m. tallies,
Of masks under noses, of anti-vax rallies.
But this is Victoria, we don’t need haste
It took 80 years, for us to treat waste.
Yet in the end, Mr. Floatie took flight,
SO HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT!
