Twas the night before Christmas, when all through Citifield
Not a creature was stirring, not a season ticket billed.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Bay soon would be there.
Jeffy was nestled all snug in his bed,
While visions of championship parades danced in his head.
And Omar besides him, and Fred in his Dodgers cap,
Had just settled their brains for a long offseason nap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
they sprang from the beds to see what was the matter.
Away to the window they flew like Jose,
Tore open their hammies and screamed “oy Vey!”
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But Charlie Manuel in limo, with Philly Garb and Gear.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it was Jamie Moyer as St Nick.
More rapid than Philly Eagles his players they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
“Now Halladay! now, Hamels! now, Lidge and Polanco!
On, Howard! On, Utley! on, on Rollins and Victorino!
To the top of the stadium! to the top of the Apple!
Now dash away! Dash away! And leave some “coal”!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and Brian Schneider too.
And then, in a twinkling, they heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As they drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Moyer came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, or so it was told,
And his clothes were all adorned with NL championship gold.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.
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 white as the snow.
A chunk of tobbacco he held tight in his teeth,
And the spittle it encircled his feet nondiscrete.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And they cried when they saw him, in spite of themselves!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had plenty to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And put Crist Coste in the stockings – what a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney 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,
“Happy Christmas to all Philly, sucks to be a Mets fan all right!”
This poem of course is just in good jest
for tomorrow is a mystery, things may turn for the best.
To this great game we all know and love
despite all the setbacks it still ranks above.
On this festive day we at Kiners Korner say
thanks to our readers, our guests, even St. Nik for witty repartee.
A Merry Xmas to all, a time to give & recieve
2010 is coming – Ya Gotta Believe!
Merry Christmas, a belated Happy Chanukah, a festive Kwanzaa, and a happy New Year from all of Kiners Korner.