Once in ol’ England, both ancient and vast,Lived folks with traditions, long held and steadfast.
They danced and they sang when winter was nigh, Under the stars, beneath the cold sky. The solstice was coming, the shortest of days, They prepared for the feast in so many ways. With holly and ivy, they decked every hall, and a Yule log was burned, a tree once so tall. But just West of Rome, sat a man robed in white, Pope Greg, in his Vatican… was his hat too tight? For he pondered and prayed with his furrowed brow, “How can we bring these pagans to vow? VOW! VOW! VOW! VOW! “To our faith, to our fold, in the Christ Child believe, and their old pagan ways they must surely leave.” So he plotted and planned, found a few saints to send, “We must change their tradition, Saturnalia must end! Shouting, “Let us take over this pagan delight, and make it about the Holy Birth Night. We’ll infuse their rituals with our good Christian grace, And Christ’s Mass will slowly take the solstice’s place. “So it happened o’er time, to the pagans’ surprise, Their meals and their dances became Christianized. Their feasting was now for the Christ Child’s birth, and their parties lost some of their ol’ heathen mirth. Where Odin once rode ‘cross the sky on Sleipnir, soon Saint Nicholas would soar, with eight tiny reindeer. All the mistletoe, holly, ham, trees, and wassails, Would all stick around, though the Pope’s plan prevails. For the people adapted, they bent and they swayed, But the essence of joy in their hearts, it still stayed. They embraced the new faith, yet remembered the old, In the stories they recounted, both spirited and bold. Pope Greg had succeeded, but maybe not as he planned, For the spirit of solstice in their hearts still fanned. The magic of yule, it forever remained, Hiding inside the message that Christmas contained. And so, my dear reader, has our tale closed? Is babe Jesus the victor, to reign unopposed? Or could his day be stolen out from under his manger? As Jeff Bezos circles… is “Christmas” still in danger? Perhaps the real lesson is that the season’s so large, That there is no need to leave just one group in charge. For the joy and the love, in each heart does reside, No matter the reason, or the faith that’s applied. We hold one goal in common, or at least we should, And that dream is just: to do that which is good. So we’ll wrap up our poem, though last but not least:
Who sitting here will carve the roast beast?
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