'Twas the Fight Before Christmas

'Twas the fight before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was speaking to his or her spouse,

The stockings were hung by the chimney with stares,

Though the tension was so thick, they could have hung in mid air.

The dog was nestled in his new orthopedic bed,

While visions of visiting in-laws made this master see red,

So me in my 'kerchief, and Glenn in his cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's spat

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

We sprang from our folded arms to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and tripped over the trash

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,

Gave luster to the freeloading relatives below,

When, what to my bloodshot and baggy eyes should appear,

But a miniature army of them, eight more than last year,

With a little old lady, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment, I was going to be sick.

And she whistled and shouted, and called them by name,

"Now Matthew! Now, Jessica! Now Jason! Now Gwen!

Go wake up your aunt and your old uncle Glenn!"

To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall!

Climb down chimney if you have to you all!"

As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly,

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

So up the stairway the crumb crushers they flew,

With a bag full of empty soda cans, and empty stomachs, too.

And then in an inkling, I heard in the kitchen,

The prancing and pawing of each little vixen.

As I poked in my head, they were scurrying around,

Up the stairway one nephew came with a bound,

He was pierced like a porcupine, from his head to his belly,

And his clothes were all covered with peanut butter and jelly.

A bundle of CD's he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a hobo just opening his pack,

His eyes -- how they narrowed -- his dimples, pierced too!

His cheeks, his nostrils, and his tongue had a few.

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the peach fuzz on his chin barely had room to grow.

The stump of a sandwich he held in his teeth,

And the mustard encircled his mouth like a wreath.

He had a bored face, and an exposed midriff, too,

That shook from the cold or a case of the flu.

He was chubby and plump, a McDonald's-fed elf,

And I zipped up my lip when I saw him, in spite of myself.

A stud in his eye, and a tattoo on his head

Soon gave me to know I had plenty to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to the fridge,

And filled up his stomach; then drank a smidge,

And laying his finger aside of his nose stud,

And giving a nod up the staircase he rose.

He sprang to his bed, for his CD player gave a whistle,

And we all went to bed to the tunes of Twisted Dead Thistle.

But I heard Glenn exclaim as we crept out of sight,

They'd be staying with us for seven more nights.

A Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fight!