'Twas the
century before Christmas, and all through the
mansion,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a
dung beetle.
The
pairs of pants were hung by the
sofa with care,
In hopes that St.
Blake soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their
refrigerators,
While visions of sugar-
corn dogs danced in their
ears.
And
uncle in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the
desk to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
praised open the shutters, and
shot up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the luster of mid-
millennium to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear?
But a
green pizza, and eight tiny
cats.
With a little old driver, so lively and
rottin,
I knew in a moment it must be St.
Blake.
More rapid than
kittens his
cats they came,
And he whistled, and
poked, and called them by name;
"Now, Dasher! Now,
Thomas! Now,
Hot Dog and Vixen!
On,
Dude! On
Chicken! On,
Sock and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the
yellow snow!
Now
burp away!
Burp away!
Burp away all!"
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the
sofa St.
Blake came with a bound.
His eyes -- how they
fell! His dimples, how
yum!
His
toenails were like
dogs, his
armpit like a
prune!
He spoke not a word but went straight to his work,
And filled all the
pairs of pants, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his
head aside of his
hand,
And giving a nod, up the
sofa he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a
boom,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good
century!"
-- "'Twas the Night Before Christmas," corrupted and abridged.
