’Twas the night before Leftmas, and up at the Pole,
Not a creature was stirring—unless it was Payroll.
The workshop was humming on caffeine and fear,
With “seasonal magic” translated to “mandatory cheer.”
The elves were all clocked in, shoulders up to their ears,
Punching time cards like they owed interest on years.
The stockings were hung with a corporate-approved hope,
And the breakroom had posters that read PLEASE COPE.
Mrs. Claus stared at the numbers, then stared at the wall,
Like someone who’s watched a “family business” eat them alive.
And Santa snored hard, dreaming sweet candy cane lies—
Because even a mascot needs eight uninterrupted lies.
When out in the shop there rose such a clatter,
Like a landlord hearing tenants discuss “collective action” at dinner.
I sprang from my bed in my union-made cap,
To see who was shaking the snow globe trap.
The moon on the snow had that dead-boss glow,
That “everything’s fine” shine you see on a foreclosure notice.
When what to my tired old eyes should appear
But elves in a line with a plan and no fear—
Not prancing or dancing or jingling bells,
But clipboards, red markers, and improvised yells.
Their signs were cardboard, their ink slightly smeared:
“WE MAKE THE TOYS,” “YOU MAKE IT WEIRD.”
“NO MORE 80-HOUR WEEKS,” “NO MORE ‘PASSION’ PAY,”
“STOP CALLING IT ‘TRADITION’ WHEN YOU MEAN ‘OBEY.’”
And one little elf, with a stare like a knife,
Held up a sign that just read: TIME IS A LIFE.
Then down from the mezzanine—oh, what a sight—
Came the Pole’s “stakeholder,” red suit gleaming bright.
Not Santa, not yet—more like management’s saint,
With a grin that said “culture” and a ledger that ain’t.
He barked, “Back to work! Christmas depends on your grit!”
Which is a fun way to say, “I profit if you submit.”
The elves didn’t flinch. They didn’t even sigh.
They looked at him like, “Buddy… who exactly are you besides ‘guy’?”
That’s when Santa woke up—not with jolly delight,
But with that slow, ugly clarity you get at midnight:
The kind that arrives when you finally admit
That the “goodwill” you sell is mostly someone else’s sweat.
He shuffled downstairs, beard half-asleep,
And saw rows of elves he’d trained not to keep:
Tiny hands cracked, eyes dull as old tin,
Still making “joy” like it isn’t a sin.
He saw “Holiday Bonus: ONE (1) HOT COCOA,”
He saw “Team Spirit: Unpaid Extra Shift,”
He saw “Wellness Seminar: Gratitude Under Pressure,”
Which is landlord poetry—just softer, with treasure.
He picked up the ledger, flipped page after page,
And every number read like a cage inside a cage.
Then Santa looked up, and his voice went flat:
“Okay. Yeah. We’re not doing this anymore.”
The foreman—some reindeer in fleece and self-regard—
Said, “This violates policy. Also, the brand.”
Santa smiled the way a person smiles
When they’re about to stop pretending.
“Policy?” Santa said. “Buddy, I am policy.”
Then he pointed at the workshop like it personally offended him.
“I’ve spent centuries playing friendly landlord to the North Pole.
You all build the world’s ‘magic,’ and I collect the rent in applause.”
He turned to the elves—his face suddenly tired,
Like he’d just remembered what he actually admired.
“You don’t need my permission. You never did.
You’re not ‘helpers.’ You’re workers. That’s the whole damn lid.”
He snapped his gloved fingers—a sound like a lock giving up—
And the conveyor belts shuddered, then coughed, then shut up.
The punch clocks blinked red like a small righteous riot.
Even the cameras went strangely, blessedly quiet.
Santa walked to the big, stupid sign over the door—
SANTA’S WORKSHOP: PRIVATE PROPERTY—what a bore—
And he laughed, not warmly, but sharp as ice:
“Imagine owning a workshop. Like it’s a hat.”
He yanked it down. The screws hit the floor.
Somewhere, a property owner felt a chill and didn’t know why.
“Listen,” Santa said, “I know how this goes.
The owners always say: ‘If you stop, everything breaks.’
But somehow it’s only ‘everything’ when it’s their money
and never when it’s your body.”
Mrs. Claus stepped forward with a clipboard and a look that could melt steel.
“Here’s the deal,” she said, like she’d been waiting a century.
“Shorter shifts. Real pay. Healthcare. Time off.
And if anyone says ‘we’re a family’ again, we’re charging them a fee.”
The foreman tried one last gasp: “But… but… the children!”
Santa cut him off. “Don’t do that.”
“Kids deserve toys. Elves deserve lives.
And I’m done using ‘think of the children’ as an excuse to grind once-happy elves into glitter for Barbies.”
The elves formed a circle, not for “team building,”
But for building solidarity and power.
They elected stewards. They wrote demands.
They made a mutual aid table out of the old “Motivation Station.” (just a desk with instant coffee and creamer, one of which was ALWAYS empty)
Someone started a chant—quiet at first, then steady:
“WE MAKE THE TOYS—WE SET THE TERMS.”
“WE MAKE THE TOYS—WE SET THE TERMS.”
And Santa—Santa climbed onto the old sleigh platform
like a man stepping down from a throne he never earned.
“I’m not your boss,” he said. “I never should’ve been.”
“I’m just the guy in the red suit who finally read the fine print.”
He tossed the Nice List into the furnace.
It went up like dry kindling—because it was always just a morality story
to keep people obedient and grateful for scraps.
He looked out at the snow, the lights, the whole glossy holiday myth.
Then he muttered, almost tenderly,
“Property owners really do think the world is a storage unit they inherited.”
He climbed into the sleigh—but different now.
Not as an owner. Not as a brand.
As a courier, at most. A guy with a truck and a conscience. (And Teamste’s Union benefits)
And as he rose into the polar night, you could hear him call—
not jolly, not sugary, but clear as a bell:
“Happy Christmas to all—
and to all: no rentiers! The Dead Kennedys were right!”