O, cold, callous caucus,
Intensively inattentive,
The plight of no-rights
Fills not a sidebar, not a
Column-inch 'tween
Tri-coloured impressions of
This season's must-have glee;
Wanting hearts bleed in vain.
Possessing possessions;
Commercial passion usurps
The ancient mythic tale.
Gone all those beyond the pale,
No plate, no sup, no joyous cup,
No relief of unremitting pain
This year or next
Even from the way-too blest.
Every year the wall is built
Between the lucky and the bilked
Whose life our world has milked;
The denial of need which feeds
The fount of plenty for
Those whose bounty o'er flows
The tallest ewers made of gold,
To leave the ghosts their fare of mould.
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