Spitsbergen sits in the far northern seas,
Frozen in summer and barren of trees.
Polar bears rule, with the land to themselves,
Save for an underground workshop for elves.
Santa, you see, is a Spitsbergen guy,
Fond of the cold and the wide-open sky.
Santa stays home—he rarely goes forth—
Living with elves in the darkness up north.
Toy fabrication is delicate work,
Lights are required to push back the murk.
Heaters are blazing for most of the year:
Elves say, “No power? Then no Christmas cheer.”
Energy usage exacts a harsh toll:
Spitsbergen runs on its dusty black coal.
How many girls know—or how many boys:
Coal fuels the engines that make all those toys.
Newspaper editors started to sleuth,
Journalists finally discovered the truth;
Greta from Sweden—yes, Thunberg, the teen—
Protested fervently, “Santa’s not green!”
Santa was worried his bubble had burst,
“Nightmare!” he cried; he was fearing the worst.
Cancelling meetings, he summoned his elves,
Seeking ideas on his library shelves.
Image in tatters—the papers were mean—
Santa was desperate to quickly go green.
Windmills might work were it not for the ice,
Solar? Too dark! Arctic sun won’t suffice.
Santa gave up, getting drunk on cheap gin.
Angry, he tossed all his tools in a bin,
Went to the barn on his way to his bed,
Planning to visit the deer in his shed.
Moody he was, in a miserable funk.
Frankly, our Santa was stumbling drunk.
Worried about his impending world tour,
Santa fell into fresh reindeer manure.
Soiled and tipsy, he snored all night long.
Rudolph and Dasher said, “Something is wrong!”
Fretting, the reindeer were stomping their paws.
Morning arrived. The elves rescued old Claus.
Santa stayed drunk for well over a week. One of his elves,…
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