Twas the night before Christmas and all through the hizzy,
Our kitchen awaits, cuz it’s ‘bout to get busy.
And while stockings still hang, by the chimney with care,
It’s the food soon to come, which edge gifts by a hair.
The Family was nestled, slightly tipsy in bed,
After Christmas Eve drinks were indeed quite widespread.
And Elana with Toby, and I right next door,
Found it difficult to sleep, despite three beers or four.
When down in my stomach, there arose such a feeling,
For Marmo’s Christmas cookies, which needed some stealing.
To the top of the stairs, I crept like a fox,
Careful not to wake, Marmo and the Box.
I descended same stairs, like new falling snow,
Quiet and stealth, so no one would know.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But tin jars filled with treats, and holiday cheer.
Tree shaped shortbreads, and Russian tea cakes,
With no chance in hell, of applying the brakes.
I pile a bunch, on a white porcelain plate,
And sit by the tree, with my sweet tasting freight.
I lay on the floor, with a wide sprawling grin,
With my appetite ready, it’s about to begin.
And as I twiddled my fingers, choosing which snack to pick,
A man slid down the chimney, holy $#%2! it’s Saint Nick!
Dressed all in red, from his toes to his chops,
“Get out of my house, or I’m calling the cops!”
But instead he just smiled, his dimples how merry.
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
I pinched myself often, it just couldn’t be
But Kringle remained, with spirit and glee.
“And the reindeer?” I said. “Which drive your great sleigh?”
“Just chilling up top, chowing down on some hay.”
“Get out!” I exclaimed. “You’re kidding me right?”
But Ol’ Claus gave a look, as to say “not tonight.”
He then spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
“The cookies” he said “I’d please like a few
And a glass filled with milk – it’s Santa’s go-to.”
“And after I’m done, don’t eat anymore,
For my arsenal of coal, I ain’t scared to ignore”
I nodded my head, and fetched him his drink,
Which he drank with great speed, and gave me a wink.
“Your hair” he remarked. “It’s pretty bad ass”
As he patted my dome, and returned his glass.
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 drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”
Poem by John Iaciofano, photo of the Iaciofano Family Christmas tree.