Dear Diary,
It's the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature is stirring, not even a spouse.
The stockings are hung at Mom's house tonight, in hopes that St. Nicholas, knows where to light.
The children are nestled in some house, I'm sure, but puppy and I are awake and alert.
If I had a kerchief or husband or hat, I might settle down for a restful-type nap.
But out on the lawn, the sprinklers do splatter, and I try to wonder just what was the matter.
Away to my diary I write it all down, about no Christmas romance or how I do frown.
A peek out the window shows no fallen snow, and no luster of midday, no twinkly-eyed beau.
But what to my wondering eyes should appear, a blinking red light in the starry-night clear.
A cell tower 't wasn't, for I knew it's flick. I knew it as none other than jolly St. Nick.
The nose of his guide went on blinking and on, but no whistling or shouting, or eight-reindeer-song.
But Dasher, and Dancer, and Prancer, and Vixen, and Comet, and Cupid, and Donder, and Blitzen
would see to it that at this time next year, I'd have someone to dash away, dash away fears
just as dry leaves that before the wild hurricanes fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
so I shall have someone who leaps to rescue, like that jolly old beard, turning stresses askew.
And then in a twinkling, as if I were aloof, this prancing and pawing, I do in this spoof,
would be but a mem'ry of days independent, before Nicholas gave me a ring, quite resplendent.
That's Nick, dressed in fur, from his head to his foot. The one who was tarnished with ashes and soot.
But the bundle that he had flung on his back, would have something or someone for me in that pack.
His eyes, will they twinkle! His dimples, how merry. His cheeks and his ears and nose, I'll love very.
His smile will just melt me, as quick as the snow. And the beard on his chin, no more than a shadow.
The stump of a pipe, he will never have touched, for to smoke would not be in his character, much.
His face might be broad and so might his belly, but not so much so that it jiggles like jelly.
But if he were chubby or short as an elf, and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself,
a wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, would soon give me to know, I had nothing to dread.
We'd speak a few words, about Christmas and work, and I'm sure that I'll find he'd be no kind of jerk.
And laying his hand neath his chin in a thought, he'd pull out the box with the gift he had brought.
I'd spring to his arms, neath a small mistletoe, and embrace as dear Santa would wave to below.
And we'll hear him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"
...See ya tomorrow...
