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Who Believes in Father Christmas?

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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