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 us, nor cars, nor gas emitted,
nor by Bernie Ecclestone!
CO2 can’t warm the air –
and blaming it just isn’t fair!
Released by cars and warm conditions,
levels grow with each ignition,
up and up – while temps now fall,
as brilliant Helios sets to stall.
As the fiery orb gets bored,
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 –
numbed to thought by group-deceit,
as fatal frost
now scores new 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 they come, untamed, again:
dank, summer lows and light-whirred 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,
inflaming 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 coal exorcists get hits
with oppressive science fiction.
Ignore their hogwash 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:
or how the jetstream’s winding path —
that freezes Greece with Finland’s laugh,
as geomagnetised bends twist
from solar slumber’s cosmic waves,
and stoop 3,000 miles to kiss
Alaskan Frost to Everglades —
can vindicate said Man Made Warming,
when its models need stream flat
and pole-shifted, sliding storming
winds, from tropics, to cold lats;
in imagined, bake-faked scam,
that moves sea-lows a country North,
so counter-clockwise cyclone strands
the ‘Eastern Beasts’ on Arctic course —
and Europe sweats in Irish sauna,
West wind-washed, from system’s base:
drowning Christmas crystals, born to
sharpen land with frozen lace —
Yet even as the BEEB’s false heads
still blackmail joy with vulpine cries,
storm-lows are whipping South instead,
their East wind wake inviting glide
of feathered, Baltic gems that watch
the streets that, long, knew only damp,
which stamped the sleet to road-stained blotch,
and soaked, to dark, night’s moon-flaked lamp —
yet, frigid, marvelling, now inhale
the breath of Beast, as stir of white:
a silent cold that, vacuum-baled,
petrifies the coast with light —
whose herald-flakes skirt gravity,
and dance, as wind-larks of the morning:
crystal witnesses, that free
world consciousness, that cold is dawning;
as ghosts that hang in causal still;
Siberian dry, that lies, uncut,
in easy, fractal proof of chill,
as visitors from Starjik’s slopes,
whose flux is orchestra of truth,
and drawn, thus, West, by vacuum volts,
of #MiniIceAge patterns’ proof.
Showered with sparks of cold-lit ground,
a small ice-age is free — unbound!
So tighten walks with wind-rapped layers,
and dance with huskies’ bright eyed runs!
Diamond mist, for years, will flare
with frigid holograms of fun!
We’ll rejoice in Helios’ lore,
and surf the snow, and live the show,
of Solar Cycle Twenty Four —
go go go GO !!!
Copyright Jonathan Graham, 2018