’Twas the night before, etc.

There’s a certain tradition, in the month of December,
to cast the mind backward and fondly remember –
or perhaps not so much; based on how we’ve been treated,
we may wish these past episodes never repeated.
Nonetheless, when the days have grown darker and chiller,
when we’ve covered the garden, retired the tiller,
stowed fuel in the woodshed and grub in the larder,
as the sub-zero frosts hit us steadily harder,
when the snow tires are on and the bulbs have been planted,
we reflect on the months we have worried and ranted,
and we seek out some meaning, amid all the hype,
in a year-end roundup (not the glyphosate type).

Some wait till New Year’s for the final summation,
to include all fresh horrors afflicting creation.
Never filed before deadline – but I think that I’ll try it,
and we’ll hope that these final few weeks pass in quiet.
But why do it in verse? Isn’t that a bit trite?
Well, perhaps that’s the point – an attempt to make light
of our stresses and strife, our alas and alack!
It’s a bit self-indulgent, but cut me some slack,
for the bars have been closed and they’ve shut every border,
and the sad last resort of a jaundiced reporter
is to mimic Ted Geisel’s poetical styling.
(It’s a genre that fairly cries out for defiling.)
In this primitive metre, these scandalous rhymes,
We attempt to find sense in nonsensical times.
Scant insight’s required to pen lines doggerelesque,
But it helps if you have some spiked nog on the desk,
and a stance one might call journalistically shameless.
(So no wonder the author’s desire to stay nameless.)

Well, what can be said of these 12 months expired?
If this year were a worker, we’d tell it, “You’re fired!”
What an annus horribilis, as Queen Liz would say.
(Not a reference to Trump, lest you take it that way.)
Of notable figures our world’s been bereft –
John Crosbie the Tory, Shirley Douglas (stage left).
Off went Meeker and Shack, and Henri Richard,
and Alex Trebek read his last index card.
RBG left the bench, singer Salome Bey,
Dr. Foth (from Maclean’s), and Neil Peart flew away;
Closer to home, Laura Smith, of sweet voice,
and Les Corkum, a ven’rable woodsman first-choice.
John Prine from this big goofy world took his leave,
and a great many more found their final reprieve.
Though I could drone on with a long Wiki list,
we all knew normal folks who are equally missed.

But the dominant theme of the times we’re enduring
is a virus that’s thus far resistant to curing.
If you think that a spreader’s for flinging cow poop
then you’re out of the epidemiological loop.
All our sociable habits met sweeping curtailments,
many businesses suffered financial derailments,
and the rules that were meant to keep Public Health happy
made some people go quite completely bat-crappy!
The U.S. campaign made us all more despairing,
as hate and mistruth got a generous airing
and conjured an image, as yet unresolved,
of democracy fully prorogued and dissolved –
an age of anxiety, as Auden once wrote –
a sense that we’re not really in the same boat.
As we “pivot” ad nauseam, and normality’s “paused,”
there’s some backlash against all the pandemic laws –
certain voices that say, “Jeez, this ain’t the Black Death!
There’s not that many drawing their terminal breath!”
A surprisingly common rhetorical trick
is to point to the numbers of aged and sick
whose death beds were probably already made –
“So why should we be so locked-down and afraid?”
But this line of thought, at libertarians’ urging,
too strongly resembles a eugenic purging.
There are two sides to every slippery slope –
and that’s no way to honour our elders, I hope.
If doctors and nurses have conspired to deceive,
just who do you think we can safely believe?
There’s a lot more at stake than mere sneezes and chills;
it appears our society’s got deeper ills.

And what cure’s at hand for our current complaining?
No real remedy comes from simplistic explaining.
’Twould be nice to imagine unanimous choice,
and that every wee Who will soon sing with one voice,
but we know that despite the conventions of yule,
any easy solution’s the gift of a fool.
Just beware of our hubris, and the trend toward self-dealing,
and take heed of those who are truthfully healing;
don’t cultivate grievance, division, or spite,
wish your enemies well (and to all a good night).
Put crops in the ground, and you’ll reap what you’re sowing,
and nourish the soil in which you are growing –
some parsnips and spuds, tomatoes and leeks –
and don’t hoard toilet paper for 52 weeks.
While the world is engulfed in great fury and sound,
enjoy your traditions, without being hidebound.
Take stock of your blessings, and keep some perspective,
for gratitude serves as a gentle corrective.
In kerchief or cap (or starkers – why not?),
plan to get through the winter by sleeping a lot.
The long year of which we will soon be well ridden
may seem but a dream, or a nightmare unbidden.
This century’s had a depressed adolescence;
the next decade must be our souls’ convalescence.
When you open your shutters and reef on the sashes,
a new day may bring inspirational flashes.
Put aside thoughts of miscreants, crooked and wily;
Land’s sake, love your neighbour – not moistly, but drily.