Gabriele Pötscher

Overload #31

On Current Affairs

Let Them Eat Cake

You have no wood to heat your stoves?
Then burn your dead.

You have no water, the wells are bombed?
Then drink the blood now flowing on the ground.

You once sold oil, now burning in the sky?
Sell Tupperware, or Amway for a while.

And be glad!
Praise the saviors of your land!

They have brought to you
Life     liberty
And their pursuit
Of happiness!

Multi-culti Christmas or
there’s no place like home for the holidays…

We’re in the mood for love,
For peace
Let’s show our heart for fellow man
And trim our homes
With worthwhile things
From foreign lands,
Count the blessings in our lives
We faithful of the global village.

With chestnuts roasting on an open fire
We’ll need a tree.
Freshly chopped or uprooted
From its Scandinavia wood
We’ll nail it
to a wooden cross,
Cornered on the Oriental carpet
In the living room

We’ll deck the halls with boughs of holly,
Hang thin glass balls
Bought from eastern bloc lands
Where people happily paint for less, and
We’ll stick on
sharply pointed straw stars
Plaited by kerchiefed women
Hunched in quaint stables or shacks
In little towns of Kosovo
So grateful for work these days.

When the snow lays roundabout
We’ll boil, bake and broil
A turkey who has gobbled his last
After months of gullet-stretched fattening
Among his Hungarian friends.
His insides will be rammed full of
Tasty, ready-made American stuffing mix
And then he’ll rest in peace
Next to blood-red yams
Discovered among now long-dead Incas,
His place adorned by colorful salad leaves
Cut and sorted by those who speak
A colorful but misunderstood tongue.

We’ll tear open
The packages wrapped
With sprightly Pokemons
Cavorting so far from home.
We’ll admire the cunning devices
For fun and amusement
Made by workaholic Japanese
Who slit their guts in shame
For quotas unfulfilled.

We’ll leave
The carcass of our ravaged bird,
His wish-bone cracked by our desires,
Amidst the carnage of our feast and

We will march
To our church

We’ll sing
And wait

Stamping our feet in cold impatience,
For the knolling of the bells
To tell us of the coming of love.

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