Thankyou, Sun, for shining heat and light and fun for so, so long:
you cooked the street’s pneumatic beat;
you blessed the coke, and loved the throng!
you scorched Ibiza’s nineties decks,
as Twentieth Century lovers kissed:
the planet’s pulse at solar max,
on febrile, shimmering, sultry mist.
Such galactic nuclear power –
which breathes the oak
from seed to tower –
doesn’t know or give a toss
what Al Gore says our fuel should cost.
Twentieth Century ice was melted
by the hyperactive sun:
not cars, nor trucks, nor gas emitted,
nor us, nor Bernie Ecclestone!
CO2 doesn’t warm the air –
and blaming it just isn’t fair!
Released by cars and warm conditions,
its levels grow with each ignition,
up and up – yet, now, temps fall,
as brilliant Helios sets to stall.
As the fiery orb gets tired,
turns down its dial,
and chills a while,
the Earth cools, too:
its glaciers grow,
and blizzards blow –
through schools of fools,
who sit and chat about the heat
– even as they lose their feet,
from record frost,
that scratches veins through glass and ice,
confounding myths of sweaty vice.
1645 was cold,
when shivers froze
the floods of old!
Decades died and winters grew,
with sunspots gone and summers too;
The Bank of Engand crept to life,
in frozen 1690s strife.
Now, round we come, the same again:
more summer lows and winter snow.
“You’re all to blame”, shout Warmist priests.
“We warned you of the Sooty Beast:
Until we steam in Hell (as planned)
Your life is cold – for summer’s damned!”
“…But this cold snap is just a trap,
while the arctic leaves the map –
melting into murky depths,
thus cooling flows that warmed the West:
changing weather patterns fast,
so ‘barbE’ summers never last!”
“You must”, they say, “pay carbon dues,
and sponsor windmills, built on cue –
for now, the answer’s blowing in”,
(as birds are smashed by blades that spin):
power comes from ghostly towers –
unless it’s calm for several hours,
while UNocrats debate the fate
of the world they didn’t make –
“whatever happens, it’s CO2:
it’s from your car – and so from you!”
They want your taxes – and your fear:
more and more of them, each year.
They’ve spun a yarn of humid sweat:
full of guilt and wretched sorrow.
“Now? The freeze – but soon the heat,
coming: ‘The Day After Tomorrow’…”
We knew extremist vicars quit
when they outlawed burning witches;
now carbon exorcists get hits
with oppressive science fiction.
Ignore their piffle and rejoice!
We’re Walking on the Earth tonight!
See history made, as ‘Arctic blasts’
whisper bicentennial flight,
of Nordic flakes, to drifts that last,
like myriad sparkling Christmas lights;
which lift the soul,
to twist and soar
through Solar Cycle Twenty Four;
which fly the flag for windblown white —
and heated soup and howling nights!
The Sun will chill for many years –
half a lifetime, it appears!
So sod the cheats who want your cash
to fund their G8 climate bash –
their pamplets as from brothers grim:
fraud, through fantasies of sin,
from Western witchdoctors,
to blackmail people to succeed;
to make us all believe
in blame and debt, and more regret –
that we be cowed
to pay and bow:
and never try to fathom how
a gas which once ruled frozen Earth
can now purvey a steaming curse.
Ski the freezing, drifting dream:
a small ice age starts now, it seems!
Fetch your coat and scarf and sledge!
Dance with huskies’ bright eyed fun!
Sparkling frost for years is pledged –
holographic white to stun!
We’ll rejoice in Helios’ lore,
and surf the snow and live the show,
of Solar Cycle Twenty Four —
go go go GO!!!