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A Yuletide Yarn

Well here it is, Christmas Eve, the shopping is finally stopping and the family is sitting around being uber-lazy and getting ready for the big day.

 

I know I promised last Friday was the last blog for the year but I can’t help myself.

 

The tradition is a poem on Christmas Eve and gosh darn if I’m not going to honour that and regale you. In this oh so not normal of a year, where all our traditions appear to be getting heaved out of the flying sleigh, it’s nice to know that some things can endure.

 

Last year at this time everyone was feeling upbeat and constructive on Canadian energy. Over the course of the year that sentiment has been taken out behind the shed beaten down and left for dead. Yet here we are, a year later and I find myself saying the same thing. I really don’t think you can keep this industry down.

 

So, in the spirit of the season, best wishes, happy holidays and Merry Christmas to all of you. I will see you in the new year.

 

Finally, the promised annual tradition, a Christmas poem. I like to think of all of you reading this to your kids, so don’t burst that bubble.

 

A Christmas Ode to the Patch

 

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the patch
not a rig-hand was stirring, no need to dispatch.
The frac-trucks were parked by the fence-line with care,
in hopes that new capex soon would be there.

 

The welders were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of pipelines danced in their heads.
And Kenney in his ‘kerchief, and Trudeau in his cap,
had just settled down for a TransMountain nap.

 

When out in the market there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my seat to see what was the matter.
Away to check prices I went with a flash,
Hoping the market did not again crash.

The price of oil seemed to be flailing about,
Will OPEC step up and settle the rout?
Then what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a storage report whose message was clear.

 

With tight oil collapsing, the signals are mixed,
But I swear to you all, the market is fixed.
More rapid than eagles, the opinions abound,
and the sector, it seems could soon make up some ground.

 

“Now OPEC! Joe Biden!
Now, Brexit and Wexit!
On, Trudeau! On, Trump!
On, Saudi and Putin!
To the end of the world!
To the end of the glut!
Give it up! Give it up!
The oil patch wants up!”

 

No more slagging of oilsands, plastics and pipe.
Export markets to open, the timing is ripe.
But up to their pulpits the pundits they flew,
Greta is worried and COVID’s here too!

 

And so, in a panic, I think this can’t be,
is the world really over for people like me?
As I turned off the news and was turning around,
the thought of the end made me fall to the ground.

 

Fossil fuels done for – green power they say,
and coal is a goner, by sometime in May.
The wind it blows turbines that spin all around,
and the sun warms up panels, not just worms on the ground.

 

The world it is changing! Transition we must!
The future is tech, Bitcoin prices robust!
Who cares if my taxes go up, up, forever?
Our leaders know all, since we know they’re so clever.
The fate of our industry held tight in their hands,
While advantage is gifted to faraway lands.
Yet even at that, I hold firmly to hope,
that when all’s said and done, surely we’d cope?

 

The prices drift round, there’s no rhyme and no reason,
yet with needles in play, the rally’s plainly in season.
A simple cut here, some aggressive demand,
Six years now no spending – we’ll be back in command.

 

For the sector is fickle and it sure is some work,
It gyrates, it shakes and then turns with a jerk.
The bears’ time is done for, the prices will rocket,
and then I’ll have plenty of cash in my pocket .

 

So doomsters take heed, your view is short-sighted,
The oil and gas market, it’s no longer blighted.
So here I exclaim, ‘ere I drive out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to oil, and to gas a good night!”

 

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