Twas the night before a new thread, when all through gaf
Not a creature was flaming, not even Thorin.
The posts were hung on the thread with care,
In hopes that St Moody would soon be there.
The shit gafers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While dream visions had legion commanders dancing in his head.
And Freakin chair in her kerchief, and Milkman in his cap,
Had just settled in for a long solo queue nap.
When out on the thread there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the screen I flew like a flash,
Tore open the pages and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen posts
Gave the lustre of mid-day to posts below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a mid tier gaf tournement, and eight tiny teams.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Moody.
More rapid than eagles his bans they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
"Now Trasher! now, Guidos! now, Chad and IRS!
On, Make it Stop! On, Dr. Kirby! on, on Riot Games and Beap Beap Motherfuckers!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the thread-top the teams they flew,
With the tournament full of shit gaf, and St Moody too.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of steam gifts he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a gaf poster, just opening his pack.
The stump of a crack pipe 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 bowlful of jelly!
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed 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 nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled the thread closed, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the new thread he rose!
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, ere he logged out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"