It’s Christmas Eve and Christmas Day will soon be coming fast,
But this is Christmas quite unlike his Christmas of the past.
D Trump sat in the lifeboat’s stern—a whisper like Iago
Came to his ears, a poisoned hiss, “Have you lost Mar-a-Lago?
It used to be right there,” it said, “but something played the devil
With wind and wave and now the thing is far below sea level.
What happened, Don?” The whisper laughed. “What could now be transforming
The land to sea—what could that be?—it’s never global warming!
You called the climate’s change a hoax and said we should ignore it
And cut the agencies whose job it was to thoroughly explore it.
You claimed that droughts and fires and floods were natural to the seasons
And China made the whole thing up for economic reasons.
Instead of tamping down the flames, you helped to fan the fire
By giving to the EPA as head a change-denier.
And now? This can’t be happening, of course—you’re only dreaming!
The salt-sea air, the cry of gulls, that winter moon that’s beaming
Above your golf course, once you thought a star upon the map
Of all you owned and which is now just one big water trap—“
“Who are you?” then demanded Trump. “Some scientific ghost
Who’s come to warn if I don’t change, we’re going to lose the coast?
But, when I wake, if I behave and back the EPA,
And rid my government of oil, can I still save the day?
Okay! All right! I’ll change and make America really great!”
But then he woke, the land was gone, the whisper sighed, “Too late!”