Twas the night before Jay-mas, and in the Customs house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
Bev’s visa still packed in boxes with care,
No hopes being together, I wish I was there.
Customs agents were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of weddings still dance in our heads.
With Bev in Nova Scotia, and me on the job,
Christmas on facebook spent building my Mob.
When out on the parking lot there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my cubicle to see what was the matter.
Away to the lobby I flew like a flash,
I slipped on the waxed floor and busticated my ass.
The moon through the fog, illuminating all things below.
Freezing fog crystals, no white fluffy snow.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
Pinkerton Security, bogarting my beer!
With a well-worn liver, voice booming and quick,
“Come back here, you bastard! Don’t be such a dick!”
More rapid than beagles in search of some grub,
I screamed and I shouted, and took his billy club!
“Now listen you, Punk… That beer there is mine!
Both bottles for breakfast, I’ll be blitzed by nine!
Now back to security, get your ass over that wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Or I’ll club you so small!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So back to the security shack that slacker he flew,
Without a single drop of the Beer Fairy’s Brew.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard atop the parking garage.
The sounds of a bass booming, a house party mirage?
I drove to the roof level and took a look around,
Down the scubbed exhaust chimney St Nicholas went with a bound.
He was dressed in white Gortex, like we wear in the Fab.
He had microscopes and CD-SEMS, like we use in the lab.
A bundle of gadgets he had tossed in a sack,
A fellow engineerding-type complete with backpack.
His eyes were all blood shot from wafer-chip design.
In need of a beverage he looked thirstily at mine!
His little jolly mouth all foamy and puckered,
His beard all sooty delivering packages made him tuckered.
And so I decided to share my Christmas cheer,
A crescent wrench was grabbed, I opened him a beer.
A smile on his face and a great big round belly,
He reached in his lunchbox and shared his PB & Jelly!
So there we sat, two working class fools,
Getting paid on Christmas, singing drunken Yules.
A wink of his eye and a clink of the bottle,
He fired up the reindeer and on rev’d up the throttle.
He spoke not a word, jumped back in the saddle,
Clicked with is teeth, as if herding cattle.
Laying finger aside his red drunken nose,
He told me of Tiger and his dozen Ho Ho Ho’s.
His laugher amusing, it sped up my shift.
Drunken Cringle crash-landed in a North Pole snow drift.
And soon this well end, my humor is not right
“Merry Jay-mas to all, and to all a good-night!”
