by Nick Gisburne
We celebrate the final Christmas Day
With sweet champagne and cyanide, a toast.
In secret, shot and savaged, from a sleigh
A man is dragged, disfigured, dead, almost.
Through battered lips he whispers, weakly, “Why?”
But no one moves to make him understand.
The focus of the feast today will die,
Convicted by a criminal command.
The corporate leviathan is vast,
And he, revered, respected, is a threat.
Without this bearded relic of the past
The money men will force us to forget.
We toast the end of charity, of cheer,
Unwrapping one more gift, forever: fear.
