LockH
1 PW
Twas the night before Winter Solstice (or insert fav holiday here), when all through the house (or wherEVer)
Not a creature was stirring, not EVen an ebiker.
The stockings were hung by the chimney (or wherEVer) with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas (or insert wattEVer ebiker saint you wish to pick, eg Saint Justin) soon would be there.
The young ones were nestled all snug in their beds (or boxes, etc),
While visions of Lithium (Ion, Iron, etc, etc) danced in their heads.
And mamma in her `kerchief, and I in my cap/helmet,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's snore (or nap).
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed (cot, etc) to see watt was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash (usually not a good sign, for an ebiker), Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast (not THAT sort of "breast", silly!) of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below.
When, watt to my wandering eyes should appear,
But a huge sleigh, with eight old reindeer sitting in the back.
With some fat old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St.Justin.
More rapid than eagles his sleigh came (in was "Google"-powered, of course),
And he whistled, and shouted, and called his venison by name!
"Relax now Dasher! relax now, Dancer! (the names have been changed, to protect the guilty) chill Prancer and
Vixen! And, Comet! and, Cupid! chill, chill Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch (or whEVer)! to the top of the wall (if it's not TOO high)!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
As ebikes that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, bounce up at the sky.
So up to the house-top the Google-powered (TM) propellers they flew,
With the sleigh full of goodies, and the old fat guy too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning awound,
Down the chimney (wattEVer) St Nicholas came with a bound.
He/she was dressed all in dead animals, from his/her head to his/her foot,
And his/her clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot (sure sounds like a chimney to me).
A bundle of goodies he/she had flung on his/her back,
And he/she looked like a peddler (not to be confused to an antique, pedal-only thingee), just opening his/her pack.
His/her eyes - how they twinkled! his/her dimples how merry! His/her butt cheeks were like roses, his/her nose like a cherry/wattEVer!
His/her droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his/her chin (?!!!) was as white as the slush.
The stump of a pipe he held in his/her teeth (Hey Santa, that better not be tobacco!),
And the fragrence encircled his/her head like a wreath.
He/she had a broad face and a not-so-little belly,
That shook when he/she guffawed, like a bowlful of jellied stuff.
He/she was kinda chubby and "plump", a right jolly, really old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him/her, in spite of myself!
A wink of his/her eye and a twist of his/her neck,
Soon gave me to know I need only be a little disturbed.
He/she spoke not a word (again, suggests a guy), but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk (no relation).
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, back up the chimney/wherEVer he rose!
He/she sprang to their sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him/her exclaim, `ere they drove out of sight,
"Happy (insert pop festival here) to all, and to all a good-night!"
- With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore, who wrote the original poem in 1822, and is probably just a really, really, really old guy now.
Not a creature was stirring, not EVen an ebiker.
The stockings were hung by the chimney (or wherEVer) with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas (or insert wattEVer ebiker saint you wish to pick, eg Saint Justin) soon would be there.
The young ones were nestled all snug in their beds (or boxes, etc),
While visions of Lithium (Ion, Iron, etc, etc) danced in their heads.
And mamma in her `kerchief, and I in my cap/helmet,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's snore (or nap).
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed (cot, etc) to see watt was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash (usually not a good sign, for an ebiker), Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast (not THAT sort of "breast", silly!) of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below.
When, watt to my wandering eyes should appear,
But a huge sleigh, with eight old reindeer sitting in the back.
With some fat old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St.Justin.
More rapid than eagles his sleigh came (in was "Google"-powered, of course),
And he whistled, and shouted, and called his venison by name!
"Relax now Dasher! relax now, Dancer! (the names have been changed, to protect the guilty) chill Prancer and
Vixen! And, Comet! and, Cupid! chill, chill Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch (or whEVer)! to the top of the wall (if it's not TOO high)!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
As ebikes that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, bounce up at the sky.
So up to the house-top the Google-powered (TM) propellers they flew,
With the sleigh full of goodies, and the old fat guy too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning awound,
Down the chimney (wattEVer) St Nicholas came with a bound.
He/she was dressed all in dead animals, from his/her head to his/her foot,
And his/her clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot (sure sounds like a chimney to me).
A bundle of goodies he/she had flung on his/her back,
And he/she looked like a peddler (not to be confused to an antique, pedal-only thingee), just opening his/her pack.
His/her eyes - how they twinkled! his/her dimples how merry! His/her butt cheeks were like roses, his/her nose like a cherry/wattEVer!
His/her droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his/her chin (?!!!) was as white as the slush.
The stump of a pipe he held in his/her teeth (Hey Santa, that better not be tobacco!),
And the fragrence encircled his/her head like a wreath.
He/she had a broad face and a not-so-little belly,
That shook when he/she guffawed, like a bowlful of jellied stuff.
He/she was kinda chubby and "plump", a right jolly, really old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him/her, in spite of myself!
A wink of his/her eye and a twist of his/her neck,
Soon gave me to know I need only be a little disturbed.
He/she spoke not a word (again, suggests a guy), but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk (no relation).
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, back up the chimney/wherEVer he rose!
He/she sprang to their sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him/her exclaim, `ere they drove out of sight,
"Happy (insert pop festival here) to all, and to all a good-night!"
- With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore, who wrote the original poem in 1822, and is probably just a really, really, really old guy now.
