‘Twas the night before Christmas, in our house on Burkett,

no fuses were blown, not even a circuit.

 

I was sleeping quite well, sawing logs and loudly snoring.

I thought I heard noises and, half asleep, went exploring.

 

I shuffled and I stumbled, down the stairs in the dark,

And I swear I heard a voice say, “Let me put it in park.”

Out front there was only a bunch of fresh holes,

Where our dog had been digging for months for fresh moles.

 

So I went out the back door on my sleepy night trek,

Past the washer and dryer, and out to our back deck.

 

I turned on the porch light, but no one was there,

No Santa, no Clause, just the cold night air.

 

But then I looked down, and as sure as you’re you and I’m me,

I saw eight reindeer faces in the wood, as plain as can be.

 

“How could this happen?” I mumbled and I stammered,

“How could eight reindeer get flattened and hammered?”

 

Is this what happens to Santa’s crew, whenever they’re found?

Do they become flat & inanimate, until there’s no one around?

 

Had Santa, too, been flattened and hammered,

while the full moon brightly glowed?

 

“Yes,” I tell myself this morning, as I watch a fat man in red

stagger down the road…