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T'was the night before November 21st
when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were still stored with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The parents & children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of presents danced in their heads;
And mamma in her Victoria Secret, 
and He only in his cap,
Had just settled down for a long autumn's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
They  sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window they flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen leaves
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to their wondering eyes should appear,
But an empty miniature sleigh, and eight sad reindeer,

With a little old driver, so thin  and lookin' like a stick,
They thought . . . . .  can this be St. Nick.  he looked sick
 Slower than molasses his coursers they came,
  And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, John! now, Angie! now, Brian and Patti!
 On, Chris! on Jennie! on, Andy and Kacie!
 To your desk,  get your pad & pen, don't stall!
Or I will. . .  dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the sky did  the coursers fly,
With the sleigh devoid of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, they heard on the roof
The forlorn dragging of each little hoof.
 As while they were preparing to write,
there came a sound,
 Down the chimney St. Nicholas 
came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
An empty bundle he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pauper just opening his pack.

His eyes -- not a twinkle! 
His dimples how they drooped!
His cheeks were now gaunt, 
"What's with you poops?!?!?!!

His droll little mouth was drawn up 
like he had just gotten a blow,
 And his face was as pale as week old snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
 And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he cried like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a sad rolly old elf,
 And they shuttered when they saw him, for they knew
A drop in his eye and a tilt of his head,
Soon gave them to know they had something  to dread;

He spoke not a word, for he had no work,
 He could not fill the stockings; he said, What "jerks",

"Where's your list????"

And laying his finger aside of his nose,
 And giving a nod, up the chimney slowly he rose;

 He sadly climbed into his sleigh, 
to his team gave a little whistle,
 And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But they heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,

                    . . . maybe next year . . . . . , 


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