This action might not be possible to undo. Are you sure you want to continue?
There’s a static in our attic, in our airways crammed with planes;
they are rapping and they’re tapping on a theme we’ll hear again,
for they’re drumming out deliveries from far across the sea,
conjured up by online orders in the Market of the Free.
Soon a multitude of parcels will envelop you and me,
(I can hear the postmen buzzing like a swarm of angry bees).
A thousand eager couriers will beat upon our doors,
demanding our e-‐signatures for global Santa Stores,
and many crimson Santa Suits will wing their way on high,
to bedeck a tribe of Santapersons, pillow-‐stuffed and spry.
Yet as LEDs a-‐twinkle on our plastic Xmas trees
lure unsuspecting kiddies to excessive, costly dreams,
our humble local shopkeepers may see their business drift
into disconnected limbo, where unglobal is unfit.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m grateful for the gifts my mob will tend,
But remember, this is Christmas, not the Feast of Pack and Send.