I met a Santa from an antique land
Who said: A vast trunk of snow
Stands in the garden… Near that, on the grass
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose smile,
And wrinkled scarf, and nose of cold, cold carrot,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read.
Which yet survive, footprints round these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the radio these words appear:
‘My name is Noddy Holder, it’s Kerrrrrrrissssstmas:
Look on my works, Dua Lipa and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Christmas hit, boundless and bare
The lone and level snows stretch far away.

Tim Bysshe Wells

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