[Introduction: “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” orchestral]
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the flat
Not a creature was stirring, save two hosts and their cats.
The stockings were hung by the window with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
Sleepy Jordan was nestled all snug in her bed;
With her cocoa and slippies and her orange boy-cat, Ned;
Sylvie in their hoodie, Rootbeer in their lap
Sat up, begging their brain for a long winter’s nap,
When out in the yard there arose such a clatter,
They both sprang from their beds to see what was the matter.
Away to the door Rootbeer flew like a flash,
Ned clawed up the curtains and tipped over the trash.
The moon on the tits of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
When what to their wondering eyes did appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
They all knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.
More rapid than deadlines his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Adderall! Ritalin! , onward Concerta!
On, Vyvanse! Wellbutrin! Focalin and Strattera!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
Just like brilliant ideas floating out of you head
As soon as you’re asked to explain what you meant,
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of gifts, and St. Nicholas too—
And then, in a twinkling, they heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As they scooped up the cats and were turning around,
Through the window, St. Nicholas leapt with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his feet,
And his clothes were flecked with cookie crumbles and sleet;
A bundle of gifts he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;
The end of a vape 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 laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
With a wry little grin, and a puff of his pen,
He asked them both, “Why are you still awake, then?”
“Beating Zelda,” said Sylvie. “Watching sea sheep,” said Jordan.
“But, at four in the morning?” Santa asked, quite disheartened
“You’re supposed to be nestled all snug in your beds,
With visions of sugarplums up in your heads,”
But before he could argue or send them to sleep
Jordan lit up like fireworks and jumped to her feet
“Did you know,” she exclaimed, with a wave of her hands
“Sugarplums aren’t real plums! They’re hard candy, in fact.
“The history’s riveting, let me just find the book,”
As she ran to the bookshelf, Sylvie threw him a look.
“If you want to get out before Boxing Day,
You should grab all the cookies and go. Run away.”
So while Jordan searched, he went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And giving a nod, both exhausted and kind,
St. Nick rolled up his pack, out the window he climbed;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, in a voice deep and sure—
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all, learn parkour.”
[Outro: “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” orchestral.
Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas!]