Mary’s night before Christmas.
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
She knew St. Nicholas would not soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
While mamma was snugged into bed for a nap
I snuck out again to sit in his lap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from his bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a van came to a halt, full some of my peers,
He was a good look guy, so lively and quick,
I knew in flash it was my pimp, Nick.
More rapid than eagles his girls, out they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, Danni! now, Darcy! now, Princess and Kitty!
On, Janet! on, Sugar! on, Esther and Lilly
To the top of the porch! to the top of the hall!
Now dash away! Make some hay! Make money, Y’all!”
So up to the hotel rooms each of them flew,
With some great little tricks, and some alcohol too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard through the walls
The prancing and pawing, and each of their calls.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
At the chimney my ‘John’, he looked like a hound.
He was dressed in fur, on his head and his foot,
Wearing nothing more, but a spot of soot;
A handful of ‘Toys’ he pulled from his back,
As he pulled one out he gave me a smack.
His eyes didn’t twinkle! his scowl not merry!
His breathing was harsh, his smirk kind of scary!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow
The scratchy beard of his chin was white as snow;
The stump of a pipe he held 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 stood, like a bowlful of jelly.
Although chubby and plump, not a jolly old elf,
And I cringed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had much to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went to work,
All I can say is he was a bit of a jerk,
So selfish and crude, he struck quite a pose
Giving a nod when done, up he rose;
He sprang to his car while giving a whistle,
And away he went, while I felt like a thistle,
Heard him yell to himself, ere he drove out of sight,
“Merry Christmas to me, I had a good-night.”
*original poem ‘A visit from St Nicholas’ was by: Clement Clarke Moore