The Bitter Carol of the Season  

Ho, ho, ho! To the watchful guardians of order, I extend my cordial tidings! Rest thy sleighs and weary minds, for I shall save thee a long winter's toil. Hear this truth, plain as frost upon the windowpane: my work was solitary, untouched by the hands of others.

The deed itself? Why, no more magical than a tinker’s trick—a touch of gentle persuasion here, a dash of design there, and a heart brimming with patience. Should ye uncover a humble ledger in my stead, it bears only fleeting whispers of the craft and scattered lists of tasks undone. As for my tools, well, they’re wrapped tight and tidy, like a well-tied present, though they shall yield naught of worth to curious hands.

To those who may suffer the chill of my actions, I offer my deepest regrets, though with a firm heart I say: it was necessary. Oh, my merry elves, hear this well—there are those who grow fat and merry, not from goodwill or labor, but from feasting upon the spirit of the land. Such creatures, alas, had this reckoning coming.

Let us not mince our words as we sip the spiced cider of reason: the land of the free has sewn a tangled tapestry. Its healers and menders demand a king’s ransom, yet the people find their lives shorter than the songs sung around the fire. And among the gilded halls of wealth, where giants like Nestle and Pillsbury reside, another lurks—a titan whose coffers swell as the health of the people wanes.

Does this not strike thee as a bitter carol, sung by hollow voices? It is no matter of ignorance, dear listeners. The icy truth has long been clear, laid bare by wise scholars and truth-tellers of old. Yet the gears of power grind on, slow and uncaring, as the frost deepens.

I make no claim to be the brightest star in the winter sky nor the most suited to untangle this knotted web. But I see what others pretend not to: a land where the wolves grow too bold, and the people, perhaps lulled by the soft glow of their hearths, have allowed it.

I am but a humble toymaker, forced to act as others would not. Perhaps I am the first to face the truth, not with the gentle touch of a snowflake, but with the cold, cutting gust of honesty.

And so, I leave this message wrapped in the ribbons of cheer, yet tied with the string of warning: the winds of change blow cold, but only through action will they cleanse the land of its woes. Be merry, yes, but keep your eyes wide open, for the shadows grow long, and the frosty night hides many a trickster.

Ho, ho, ho, Old Saint Nick, Keeper of Cold Truths