Joe shared this shamelessly hacked poem he wrote for this Christmas season … Thanks Joe!

A Shop Visit from St. Nicholas
(BASED IN ITS ENTIRETY ON THE CLASSIC POEM OF CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE, WHO WOULD UNDOUBTEDLY BE APPALLED BY ALL OF THE SHAMELESS HACKS THAT HAVE BEEN PERPETRATED ON HIS SKILLFULLY WOVEN DEATHLESS PROSE.)

It was the night before Christmas, and all through my shop,
Not one project was running, not a brake drum could stop;
Some small bits were hung on the paint rack with care,
But I’d blown my parts budget buying presents and beer.

The Grandkids were all nestled at their folks in their beds;
While memories of “ice cream runs” played back in their heads.
And their Grams in her nightie and our dog in her lap,
They were all settling down for some long winter’s naps.

Then when out in my driveway I heard such a clamor,
I climbed up from my creeper to see what was the matter.
Off to the garage door I sped like the Flash,
I peered out one small window, my chin on the sash.

The moonlight shining off of the near-record snow,
Gave the luster of midday to my yard art below.
And then what to my bifocaled eyes should appear?
But an engine-less Jeep pulled by tiny reindeer,
With a portly old driver so rotund and so thick,
I got a weird feeling the dude was Saint Nick.

As if powered by hemis his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and bellowed, and shouted their names:
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!
To the right of that flagpole! Look out for that wall!
Bang a left! Hang a right! Jeez, follow my calls!”

As leaves that behind a Super Hurricane would fly,
Should they meet with an obstacle, watch out for this guy!

So out towards my backyard this lash-up it flew,
With a bed full of packages, and Saint Nicholas too —
And then, in an instant, I heard on the roof,
The screeching of tires and banging of hooves.

As I covered my head, and began scrambling around,
Through the back door Saint Nicholas crashed with a bound!
Dressed all in red Carhartt, from his hat to his boots,
His duds were all covered with grease stains and soot.
A boatload of stuff he had crammed in a sack,
And he looked quite the character. (Hey, what’s in that pack?)

His eyes — they were bloodshot, his balance… was scary!
His cheeks were quite stubbly, his nose red as a cherry!
His mischievous grin was curved up like a bow,
The mustache on his lip was as white as the snow.
The stump of a stogie was clenched in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath.

He clutched a cold brew and had an ample beer belly,
Both sloshed as he moved, just like pools full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right pudgy old elf,
And I knew that I liked him, in spite of myself.
A wink of an eye and a nod of his head,
Made me strongly suspect I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Laid new parts on my workbench; then he turned with a jerk,
And sliding two fingers up inside his nose,
Then forcing a toot, out the back door he blows!

Bounced back in his Willys, and to his team he did whistle,
And away they all shot, like a ballistic missile.
But I heard him yell out, as they streaked out of sight —
“Pleasant wrenching to you, and to your loved ones — good night!”