Twas the week before Christmas, when all through the land

Time stopped. Had enough. Stood still. Took a stand.

The moments were hung upside down and hog tied,

A past misremembered, a future denied.

The people were nestled all snug in their heads,

Not noticing time unraveling its threads

But mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

We looked at each other and asked, “what's the hap?”

We felt the disturbance, the twitter, the splatter,

We sprang to conclusions and watched roaches scatter.

Away to my newsfeed I flew like a flash,

But no word about time, only red-blue-boom-crash.

The swoon of time pressed for this time to bestow

Revitalized lustre to kick start its flow,

Tis a shame that time is now waiting for us,

In its fashion, its way, in its time travel bus.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

It's Santa who's stopped time! It's good old St. Nick!

More rapid than eagles his invectives came,

And he shouted, and cursed, and called them by name;

“Now, Rich Guy! Now, Tyrant! Destroyers of Earth!

On, Bias! Injustice! The Luck of your Birth!

Though tied up in knots, Earth time won’t stand still!

But your time has paused with no future to fill!”

As sly thieves that before the inequities fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, preach and decry,

Sow fear and spread hatred, maintain status quo,

Keep marching in place and our time will not flow.

And then in a rumbling, I heard the bus start

The belching and rattling, it's coming apart.

As I drew in my head, and fell to the ground,

It leapt forward and back, then it spun round and round.

It was shrouded in smoke from its front to its rear,

And then it was gone, over there, now back here;

Sharp shattered moments Saint Nick flung about,

And he looked like a madman whose sense done gave out.

His eyes – how they narrowed! Atop o' that bus!

Clutching the future, hence thusly and thus!

His grip on tomorrow was tight and severe,

Much like the grip that I grip on my beer.

The stump of a week he held tight in his teeth,

And the years they encircled his head like a wreath;

He swallowed a swath into his round belly,

And I felt to-be shake like a bowlful of jelly.

No more chubby and plump, time's bulk is decreasing,

Oppression and privilege, relentless, unceasing;

A squint of his eye and a shake of his head,

Thus gave me to know our time might could be dead

He spoke not a word, but continued his toil,

His flinging and chewing, unknot and uncoil,

Consuming our time to restore and renew,

The nature of nature, the good and the true.

He sprang from the bus and to time gave a shout,

“It's time to move on whether with or without.

They've nurtured the ways that have brought them to here,

And now it is time they see no time is near.”

He said it twice more and again to be clear,

“And now it is time they see no time is near.”

Then I heard him to plead, ere he drove out of sight,

“Please try to catch up; Happy Christmas; Good Night.”