“The same old song every year!”
Santa cries to the monsoon,
What was once a solstice celebration,
Has long been a festival of consumerism.
He rushes through his workshop,
Followed by crafty elves,
Inhabitants of his dwarf state,
Helping with the logistics.
Modern for the century,
They no longer toil like slaves,
Various high-tech wonders
Adorn Santa’s warehouse.
Robots now work eagerly,
With artificial intelligence,
Saving costs—call it stingy—
Need electricity for a few cents.
Threads and metallic joints,
Processes—highly modernized,
Pack the gifts on the assembly line,
Embalmed in disinfectant spray.
“I don’t know if I can go on!,”
Santa worries for his peace of mind.
“Pull yourself together, man!
Christmas is your Super Bowl.”
The last parcels move along,
Fresh ideas for products,
That don’t meander to the sleigh,
Slip right out of the 3D printer.
Everything imaginable and then some,
For Daddy’s girl and Mama’s boy,
Finds its way to its destination,
Much cheaper than Amazon.
The effort is minimal,
Procedures have been optimized,
He now stores goods digitally,
Before they materialize.
Santa is completely harmless,
As long as the contract holds,
He’s currently smiling quite shamelessly,
and putting on brass knuckles.
For the good ones, there are gifts,
Only the best of the best,
For the naughty, a lesson awaits,
They’re going to get a beating.
Those who bully nice children,
Don't need to complain at all,
When Santa beats them up,
It’s a sight to behold.
Zeitgeist with seasonal cheer,
Makes hipster hearts melt,
For those old enough,
There’s Hard Seltzer this year.
Muscled up on all fours,
The alarm approaches from them,
Reindeer on steroids,
In Kevlar vests and stealth-tech gear.
What stands behind it and looks,
Like it was cut from the future,
Travels via wormholes and warp speed,
More a spaceship than a sleigh.
He activates the autopilot,
Navigates with Google Maps,
Between Xinghua and Rosario,
Hunting across the globe.
Once he ends up at flight control,
Where Grinches screen every fly,
Santa gets taken apart,
But they find no mushrooms.
He climbs down chimneys everywhere,
Becomes thinner than a ghost,
And if there isn’t one,
He enters through the window like a burglar.
Same procedure as every year.
A dinner for one, a one-man show,
The people prove themselves ungrateful,
At least Santa found his flow.
For him, there’s stress and no parties,
He who dwells on the northern glacier,
He grins and cracks open a Sparklys.
“Call me Seltzer Claus from now on.”
Merry Christmas
