|Apologies to Clement Clarke Moore|
The night before Christmas was here
the season of friendship and cheer
'Tis the season of
sharing peace and love
(and perhaps share a cold glass of beer).
There was nary a sound in the house,
not even a small, stirring mouse.
'Twas naught to be heard.
No one heard a word
except for my long suff'ring spouse.
The stockings were hung up with care
in hopes that St. Nick would be there.
Like snow falling swift
he'd come bearing gifts
that were bourne in his sleigh in the air.
The children were nestled in bed
while sugarplums danced in their heads.
In kerchief and cap
set'ling down for our nap,
the last bedtime books had been read.
From the lawn there arose such a clatter
I sprang to see what was the matter.
I flew like a flash
tore open the sash.
The wife thought me mad as a hatter.
The moon shone on new-fallen snow,
giving the luster of mid-day below.
Then what should appear?
Eight tiny reindeer,
whose gait as they flew never slowed.
The driver so lively and quick,
I knew that it must be St. Nick!
Like eagles they came.
He called out their names
as they soared o'er the snow, mounting thick.
“Now Dasher! Now Prancer! and Vixen!
On Comet! On Cupid! and Blitzen!
On Dancer and Donder!
Let's land up yonder
and find the cookies with the fixin's.”
“To the top of the porch and the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away all!”
As the hurricane flies,
they mount towards the sky,
all while I'm held, as if in thrall.
To the house-top, the coursers they flew
with the sleigh-full of toys, St. Nick too!
Then I heard on the roof
each prancing l'il hoof,
each step was as soft as the dew.
I pulled in my head, turned around.
Down the chimney he came with a bound.
Dressed in fur head to foot,
all covered with soot
like a pup just rescued from the pound.
A bundle of toys on his back.
Like a peddler he opened his pack.
He festooned the tree
and filled the stockings
with wonders he pulled from his sack.
His eyes twinkled! Dimples so merry!
His cheeks rosy, his nose like a cherry!
Mouth drawn, as a bow.
His beard white as snow,
and softer than the finest terry.
The stump of a pipe in his teeth,
the smoke 'round his head like a wreath.
A round little belly
that shook just like jelly
as he scampered and danced 'round the heath.
He winked his eye, twisted his head
I knew I had nothing to dread.
A plump, jolly old elf.
In spite of myself
I chuckled at the old man in red.
He spoke not a word, went to work.
Filled stockings, then turned with a jerk.
His finger on his nose,
up the chimney he rose
and he left with an all-knowing smirk.
He sprang to his sleigh, gave a whistle,
then flew like the down of a thistle.
While waving goodbye
he flew 'cross the sky
with speed faster than any missile.
He rose to a dizzying height
then before he rode out of sight
I heard St. Nick call,
“Merry Christmas to all,
and may each of you have a good night.”
From all of us here at SkepticaLimerick, may each of you have a safe and happy holiday season.