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Twas the Night Before Christmas

Please enjoy this (terrible) take of Clement Clarke Moore’s classic 1823 poem.

NHL: Winnipeg Jets at Nashville Predators Christopher Hanewinckel-USA TODAY Sports

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the ‘Peg

Not a coach was stirring, not even PoMo;

For their sharp skates were hung by the chimney with care,

With hopes that St. Nikolaj would soon be there;

The players were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of all their wins danced in their heads;

And Wheeler in his kerchief and Mark in his cap,

Had just settled down for a long Christmas nap,

When out on the ice there arouse such a clatter,

Blake sprang from his bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the suite he flew like a flash,

threw open the door and into the room he dashed.

The scoreboard abrest on the freshly cleaned ice

Gave the luster of mid-game to objects below,

When, what to his eyes should appear,

But a miniature game played by eight tiny kids in Jets gear.

With an old little coach so lively and quick,

I knew right at once it must be Coach Paul.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;



To the top of the hashmarks! To the top of the boards!

Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!”

As dry leaves before a wild hurricane fly,

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

So up to the arena-top coursers they flew,

With a sleigh full of wins and St. PoMo too.

And then in a tinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little boot,

As Blake drew in his hand and was turning around

In through the doors St. Nikolaj came with a bound

He was dressed all in blue from his head to his toe,

And his clothes were all tarnished with sleet and sand,

A bundle of talent was flung on his back,

He looked like a peddler just opening his back.

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 pale as the sun;

The stump of a puck he held tight in his teeth,

And the steam it rose from his mouth like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round nose,

That wrinkled, when he laughed like a little red bow.

He was smiley and slight, a right jolly young elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

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 scored all the goals; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up to the ceiling 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,