Christmas In War-Torn Africa

I woke up early on a Christmas morn. Gladly waiting for Santa before dawn. Looking through blinds in anxiety I'd torn, I'd hoped to see him approaching my lawn, in costumes in previous years he had worn. But in disguise he came with a French horn, playing elegies of demons unborn. Wheat, barley, oats, rice and grains of sweet corn filled his socks for a land which was war-torn. I'd thought the usual Santa would return. But a different Santa came to fore-warn me of a nagging menace that had drawn my nation to the brink, and seeks to drown her in a season of yuletide to mourn.