Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a Fox
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care
In hopes that Merry St. Jerry soon would be there
The writers were nestled all snug in their beds
While visions of playoffs danced in their sweet heads
And Vlade with his Camels, and Coach with his smirk
Had just settled their brains for a season of work
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter
Greg sprang from the bed to see what was the matter
Away to the window he flew like a flash
Thinking of a tweet that was really quite brash
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below
When what to Greg’s wondering eyes should appear
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer
With a little old driver, so lively and merry,
He knew in a moment it must be St.