Death of a Season

Drizzling onto the slippery roads,
Frozen powder covering the cars.
Plows push the ice day and night,
Vehicles push past the plows.
Careen and crash do they so,
Rent unto them more misery than before.

Should they have listened, I think,
Perhaps the shoppers would know well,
That tires cannot grip the ice.
They cannot grip even, the prices they seek.
Windows glow through the misty air,
Shops open early near and far,
September through December,
Black as night, but the price is right.

As the worker we toil,
To bring a happy end to a tiring day.
Customers wail and complain,
They constantly force their way.
Policies are torn asunder,
Because the customer is always right.
It can be said, they are neither gracious,
Nor would it seem they are bright.

My town become a tundra,
As a waste it is frozen and white.
To work I walk to and fro,
Risking frostbite to earn my penny.
All the while they complain,
Because my hard work does not compel,
What should I care, when I am not paid proper?
They are never right, nor are they bright.

Standing from where I am,
To the customer I shout:
Stop shopping in the Blackest of Sales,
Boycott the ridicule and torment!
Were it not for you, I would be safe,
For now I fear contagion and scars,
Because I must crawl tooth and nail,
To empty your coffers,
For my endless toil.

Where has the giving ended?

The season of X-Mas is dead.
Commodity and returns have taken the stead.
Charity and glee no longer thrills the masses,
But rather the masses shop for their thrills.
For the risk of injury or death,
Do these shoppers continue to buy,
January comes for us to return our gifts,
Because the Gift of Christmas…

Matters no more.

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