One of my favorite Christmas customs is reading “Twas the Night Before Christmas” to any and all who would listen.  Over the years, I’ve collected a variety of spoofs on Clement Moore’s poem.  This year, I thought I’d do my own commentary:

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,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

No one stirring? Not possible in 2010. And mice?  They’ve multiplied and attached themselves to computers.  Stockings hung?  Where?  The floor is the place for stockings and jeans and shirts and other things too yucky to wear but not yet ready for the laundry.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

while visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.

And Mama in her kerchief and I in my cap,

had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

The kids may have gone to bed but have their iPods, games and cell phones to keep them happy. Sugar-plums have been replaced with Facebook and Twitter. A kerchief and a cap to cover our heads – we’ve had central heating for years.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my 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 clatter came from the inebriated neighbor banging his trash cans with the edge of his bumper.  I really didn’t spring or fly, maybe I did once and yelled at the neighbor, but through the closed window.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

gave the lustre of mid-day to the objects below.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear

but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.

While the neighbor was banging his trash cans, he managed to drag his brightly lit sleigh and deer lawn ornament over to ours.

With a little old driver so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

and he whistled and shouted and called them by name.

His coursers? They were the lighted deer he was trying to grab back into place before his wife heard him. Shouted? Sure. Name calling? Sure.

Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen!

On Comet! On Cupid! On Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch!  To the top of the wall!

Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!

What ridiculous names for deer made of chicken wire and a zillion lights. As I watched, they didn’t dash way at all but suddenly sparks flew as the neighbor, thinking he was St. Nick, scaled the wall and shorted out the circuit.

As dry leaves that before the hurricane fly,

when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

so up to the housetop the coursers they flew,

with a sleigh full of toys and St. Nicholas too.

The only obstacle was the neighbor’s wife who, when she saw the devastation, cried out to her spouse: Get out, get out. Get out of this place. And take that silly little man and his raggedy bag with you.

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 around,

down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

Prancing and pawing? The deer were trying to untangle the fried wires and their movement knocked their driver to the roof. How he got to the chimney is still a mystery.

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 toys he had flung on his back,

and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

Fur? The animal folks will soon boycott him.  Not ashes nor soot but sparks from the fried wires. A burglar not a peddler – who else makes house calls at midnight?

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 of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth.

He had a broad face and a round little 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.

No one leaves jelly for Santa – they leave cookies and other treats.  That’s what makes him so jolly. The smoke halo was a leftover from the burned lights.

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 all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

and giving a nod, up the chimney 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 rode out of sight,

“Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night!”

OK, Dude.  U 2; C U nx yr.

-My deep apologies to Clement Moore