Apologies to C.C. Moore

santa-in-camo-2

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the fort
Not a creature was stirring, the sentries report;
The rifles were hung by the gun ports with care,
in hopes that this evening there’d be no warfare.
The mid-watch was nestled all snug in their sacks,
dreaming McLene would get off their backs.
And Mom in her balaclava, and me in my vest,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s rest.

When out by the moat there arose such a clamor,
I took up my rifle and cocked back the hammer.
Away to the window I flew at a run,
Tore open the blast door, and threw up my gun.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave my night-vision scope a clear view of below.
When, what to my quartering eye should appear,
But a miniature MRAP towed by eight tiny reindeer,
With a small turret gunner, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than bullets his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Benson! Now Boston! Now Duffy and Niven! On Tappan! On Lundin!

On Cooper and Stevens!
To the top of the glacis! To the top of the walls!
Now dash away! It’s easy! This isn’t the Rawles!”

As liberals that meet ‘The Donald’ will fly,
Quickly to ‘safe-rooms’ where they will cry;
So up to the keep-top the coursers they flew,
With the light armored car – and St. Nicholas too.
And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each armored hoof.
As I drew in my barrel, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in camo, from his head to his foot,
And his face was all painted with grease stick and soot;
A rucksack of packages flung on his back,
Like a terrorist bomber he opened his pack:
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;
He had a broad face, and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

My first inclination was to shoot for the head,
But my wife grabbed my arm so I missed him instead.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk
I near shot again, but she wouldn’t let go
So I gave her the gun and I reached for my bow.
But he moved pretty fast for a fat little fellow;
Jumping in the chimney as I searched for an arrow.
And laying his finger aside of his nose
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprung to his rig, 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: Arrrgggg … !!!!

May your Christmas be merry, your holiday bright
And I wish you a joyfully and sweet silent night.
But come down my chimney without my okay,
You’d best be prepared for a fast getaway
because eight reindeer power will not get you free
when you try to outrun a 50-cal BMG
(A note at the insistence of my wife: No Santas were harmed in the bald-face plagiarism of this poem. Mr. Claus was, in fact, not hit by any flying munitions, although the 50 did remove the ball from his hat. There. Satisfied?)