A Poem for a McMansion Developer

I in my kerchief and they in their caps,
were nestled snug in our beds
dreaming of apps
when what to our wondering ears should a-sound
 but the play of drills and saws all around.
At 7 am,
I sprang from the bed to see
what was the matter
and all I could hear was the
clatter, clatter, clatter.
Your workers, it seems, on
this bright Christmas morn
were busy with tools
taking Christmas for fools.
You called me a communist
not long ago
when I deplored
the slaughter of trees
on my knees.
I find it ironic
and almost iconic
That on this sacred day
you're building
your house
and not even a mouse
can find peace.
I imagine your workers
are of Christian persuasion
but must work, work, work
even on this occasion
And because you love freedom
and the capitalist's way
I don't imagine you'll pay
for the holiday.
So as dry leaves that before
the wild hurricane fly,
when they meet with an obstacle,
mount to the sky,
so up to the housetop,
We'll fly, my boys, girl and I.
Our eyes will twinkle, our dimples
how merry
Our bellies will shake
like bowlfuls of jelly.
We'll speak not a word,
but go straight to our work
delivering chocolates
to those who don't shirk
Your house will get built
It will loom over mine
But a wink from an eye,
a nod from a head,
soon gave me to know 
we had nothing to dread.
We'll spring to our sleigh,
and I'll give a whistle
and away we'll all fly
like the down on a thistle.
We'll arise from the clatter
to the only thing that does matter.



Happy Christmas to All, And To All A Good Night!






From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs