They seized the airwaves in November,
announcing that the day was near,
and now it’s harder to remember
the sort of news we used to hear.
Their propaganda’s trite and hearty:
they want us all to sing the song;
they want us all to join the party;
enlist our children; play along.
Each year’s stakhanovite campaign
to wrap an ever-tarnished present
seems lengthier and more inane,
yet we pretend it’s bright and pleasant.
The tidings swell and then reprise,
to set us getting, spending more,
we feel beleaguered—quel surprise—
it’s holiday cum psy-ops war.
Frank
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-- Frank
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