Friday, December 24, 2010


by Clement Clarke Moore
or Henry Livingston
 and Chuck Geiger

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all up in the station

Not a creature was stirring, nowhere in the nation

The stockings were hung by the digital playback system with care,

In hopes that St. Marconi soon would be there;

The owners and managers were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of cost cutting danced in their heads;

And Miranda in her 'kerchief, and Blake in his cap,

Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,

When out on the parking lot there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the studio chair to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the curtains and knocked down the Garth plaque with a crash;

No one in the station to report on the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day voice tracking to objects below,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature station van, and eight tiny guys that end careers,

With a little old driver, so lively and dark

I knew in a moment it must be St. Marc

More rapid than overnight PPM's his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

Les! now, Hogan! now, Lew and Farid 

On, David Fields! on Beasley! on, Pete Smith and Bruce Reese!

To the top of the ratings! to the top of the haul!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As the new year arrives each wants a piece of the pie;

When they meet with an obstacle, ad inventory to the sky,

So up to the house-top the PPM meters they flew,

With the van full of traded soda, and St. Marconi too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The STL was wired by a goof

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Marconi came with a bound.

He was dressed in a Zac Brown T-shirt, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of :60 spots at full rate he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a account executive 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;

He ignored the no smoking sign -The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.

He looked like a big DJ from Des Moines, 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;

Like a cold segue in PPM, He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with 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, and to all a good-night."

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