‘Twas the night before Christmas…
December 20, 2007
‘Twas the night before Christmas, but all through the trailer
not a light was a-twinkling, was it power-grid failure?
Nope, the fat, colored bulbs were all stored in their place,
to prevent a transgression ” wanton energy waste.
And as for the tree, O Tannebaum of yore,
that, too, was a no-no ” so said Al Gore.
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Gas up the Humvee, go cut down a spruce,
spew harmful emissions ” an inconvenient truth.
But a manufactured tree means by-products scary
You just never know what’ll kill the canary.
For that matter, gifts could only mean trouble,
climate warnings had burst my yuletide bubble.
So I turned down the heat, and snuggled in bed
and hoped for a visit from the fat guy in red.
Or would climatic concerns keep him away;
Could a planet in peril keep Santa at bay?
The polar ice caps are melting,
could the North Pole be gone?
The oceans are rising,
what more could go wrong?
I puzzled and puzzled till my puzzler was sore;
Maybe Christmas, I thought, means a little bit more
than not baking cookies, not gobbling the juice,
doing my part not to tighten the noose.
I awoke with a start, to a sound on the roof
The prancing and pawing of thirty-two hoofs.
Let’s see, eight reindeer, multiplied by four…
Yeah, that’s right. I sprang to the door.
He was dressed all in fur, despite global warming,
I guess it was chilly, a cold front was forming.
His cheeks were all rosey, his eyes gleamed like coal “
A fossil fuel ore! The sight stirred my soul.
He spoke not a word, but turned to his task,
arranging my gifts, between swigs from a flask;
He brought me a tree, and trimmed it right quick,
with LED lights on a switch I could flick.
I asked prying questions ’bout his carbon footprint;
if he had concerns, he gave not a hint.
The deer ran on grasses and hay, he explained;
they emit only rather unpleasant methane.
The bounty before me was nothing but green,
there were miser appliances, hybrid machines,
some energy-efficient lighting replacements,
the latest in solar and hydro amazements.
Then he sprang to his sleigh, sleek as a rocket
and pulled to his face, a kerchief from his pocket;
And I heard him exclaim, as he tied it on tight.
“Prancer’s got gas, and to all a good night.”
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