By Michael O’Neill (apologies to Clement C Moore)

T’was just days before Christmas, and in the Great White North

Canadians were laughing, rocking back and then forth.

After Trump said join America, to become state fifty-one

It was an idea so stupid, even St Nick thought it was dumb.

Liberals and Conservatives were nestled all snug in their beds

While visions of new trade partners danced in their heads.

Mark Carney wore a kerchief-he detested the cap

Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there rose such a roar

He sprang from his bed and raced out the front door.

The moon shone brightly upon provincial premiers

Who had obviously consumed “Just a few beers”

Eight men and two women were raising a stink,

For Carney’s new budget was awash in red ink.

BC and Quebec cried, “No pipeline on land,”

While Alberta just scoffed, “it’s the royalties you demand.”

Carney whistled and shouted, asking have you all gone insane?

 He took photos, he pointed and he called them by name

Now Eby, Now Legault, and you Danielle Smith

And for gosh sakes Doug Ford, stop this nonsense forthwith.

As dry leaves before a wild hurricane fly,

The inebriated Premiers all waved bye, bye.

Carney turned quickly and he ran back into his room

And right before his eyes, St Nicholas loomed,

He was dressed all in fake fur, from Chinese suppliers

Another in a long line of tariff defiers

A bundle of trade deals he pulled from his pack

To ensure the economy would quickly bounce back.

Carney smiled and grinned and nodded his head

For now, Canada’s future was nothing to dread.

Then St Nick laid a finger aside of his nose.

And out the window he flew, to the stars he arose.

And he was heard to exclaim, as he vanished from sight

“Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.”