I'm David Remnick, and this is a little holiday podcast bonus.

For decades, the New Yorker has published a poem on or around Christmas.

I'll look back at the events and people that have shaped the past year no matter what.

It's always fun, but in some

years, more difficult years, it touches on quite serious things as well. The humorist Frank

Sullivan wrote our first Christmas poem back in 1935. Roger Angel did it for many years, and

staff writer Ian Frazier has been writing it since 2012.

It's had the title, Greetings, Friends, for I don't know how many years, and here's Ian with the 2017 edition.

Greetings, friends.

Another Yule Tide at the door.

The wreath left on it since before the Christmas of 201, a goodly while ago, I mean, is up to date now once again, and I can yet remember

when I hung it in a better time well antecedent to this rhyme. So come on in, the light is lit, the dark still can't

encompass it. A vast supply of grateful gladness above the current badness, madness, prompts us to

spread goodwill promiscuous and warm warmest greetings all Christmiscuous.

So, dearest critics wince away, as I shout out this holiday,

the Khazir Khans, that gold star clan, and kind Pope Francis, holy man,

and Meryl Streep and S.E. Cup, may all find joy that fills them up.

For Mayor Rahm Emanuel and Judge Gonzalo Curiel, may this unskilful doggerel renew for them

the annual season's felicitations. And to our neighbor nations, O Canada, I hope you know the gem

you have in your Trudeau. And Mexico, I promise you, we're not all crazy, just a few.

While lambent beams celestial gleam across the continent in streams, I raise a toast to both O'Donnells, Lawrence,

Rosie, Mitch McConnell, fooled you, not, Mika Brasinski, Whoopi Goldberg, Dan Lipinski,

...