This is what happens when I start typing my weekly running report and decide to copy and paste A Visit From St. Nick and change everything to a more standard midwestern December and place it in the park where I normally run. Enjoy!
Twas the week before Christmas and all through the park,
Not a creature was heard, ‘cept for a runner’s fart;
His stockings were pulled on his feet with little care,
In hopes that some speed soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds
While wondering what’s got into daddy’s head?
Mamma still in her kerchief and I with my hat,
I whispered “I’ll be in at park” while she continued her nap.
When out in the garage, there arose such a clatter
It’s the fucking door spring, that’s the matter!
Over to the door, I flew like a flash
To turn off the opener to stop the crash.
The moon on the fields of soggy grass,
Got me to just want to pass.
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a shorter-than me runner leading eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old runner so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he must be St. Meb!
More rapid than eagles his coursers they fled,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“C’mon, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and pokey-ass Blitzen!
Along the path and over top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So along the path the coursers they flew
He’s pulling a sleigh full of toys, at a 5 minute pace too!
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down to the ground St. Meb came with a bound.
He was dressed running gear, from his head to his shoes,
And his clothes were all damp with sweat (not booze!);
A bundle of gear he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his stride, how swift!
His cheeks were like roses, the gel was a lift!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the jacket on him was as white as the snow;
The stump of a gel pack he held tight in his teeth,
And the sweat, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a wiry build
That shook when he laughed, after the world that he thrilled.
He was skinny and strong, a right jolly old 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 flew straight past on my left,
He took a quick drink; then flew on with deft,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, fired snot like a hose;
He sprang on past me, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, as he ran out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
