They said there’d be snow over Christmas, but no,
It just rained as the climate had changed.
But one man believed that the world was deceived
And the experts were dumb and deranged.
Exclaimed Piers Corbyn, “I’ve just been absorbing
This trustworthy data. Who cares
It’s anthropogenic and human-made when I
Can blame it all on solar flares?
I’m also assured that corona’s a fraud
And that lockdowns are run by deep states
So burn down the labs, as I’ve heard that the jabs
Are of miniature clones of Bill Gates.
But still my ability for gullibility
Needs a new challenge, I feel.
It’s time I were pressed to the ultimate test –
And believe Father Christmas is real!”
He’d rouse from their sleep all the brainwashed and sheeple
Who thought Father Christmas a con.
For like every saddo he trusted the shadowy
Figure called QdolphAnon.
The Qdolph adherents believe the appearance
Of Santa brings goodwill to men
And prophets Celestine hold meetings clandestine
In tunnels beneath Number Ten.
There Piers found a party for Illuminati
Who all had a laugh at the millions
Who’d be glued to the screen and be watching the Queen
Not to mention the other reptilians.
Their egos were swollen, their bread was all stollen
Exactly like last year’s election.
Then someone appeared in red robe and white beard,
With a sack and a reindeer collection.
And as Piers stood gaping, the man started taping
Their movements and each conversation.
He went for a look – at a virtual Mark Zuckerberg
Stealing the world’s information.
“I’ve measured your clicks and I’ve looked at your pics
And I’ve tracked you from cafe to bar
I’ve analysed sentiment, stirred up dissent, I meant
Only to know who you are.
I’ve looked at your sharing and trolling and swearing
And know who likes virtue or vice –
I’ve taken your data so I can create an
Account of who’s naughty or nice!”
“So Zuckerberg’s Santa!” said Piers, who began to
Believe with a vigour most hearty.
But Mark raised a toast, and announced “to our host,
Mr Johnson, for holding this party!”
“Now don’t be so hasty. The cheese may be tasty,”
Said Boris, “the wine may be flowing,
And Rishi’s got blisters from too many Twisters,
The cattle may all be furloughing,
We’ve copied our arses to make ID passes,
It’s nothing to do with impurity,
And whatever Priti’s been doing to Whitty
Is clearly for homeland security.
So though it seems tawdry to see such an orgy
Of singing and drinking and eating,
We act with integrity – just ask Allegra – team,
This is a business meeting.”
“That’s so unconvincing,” said Corbyn while wincing,
“It makes even me apoplectic.”
So great was his doubt that he said with a shout,
“Oh my God! I’ve turned into a sceptic!
His credence was busted – he no longer trusted
The websites and rumours and liars.
“I won’t look for answers to YouTubing chancers
Nor covid or climate deniers.
I don’t care a smidgeon for pseudo-religion.
Despite the most recent statistic,
I don’t even feel other people are real.
Now my world has become solipsistic!
And I don’t believe much of the things that I touch,
That I’m smelling and hearing and seeing.
I won’t fall for the scam of I think, so I am.”
So he stopped thinking, then he stopped being.
So let’s end this rhyme, as I do all the time,
With a message of seasonal cheer.
As I wish every friend who has skipped to the end
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.
Have a merry and cheery conspiracy theory,
The Christmas we get is deserved.
So let virgins give birth and let peace reign on Earth,
Never mind if it’s flat or it’s curved.
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