Not a top-drive was stirring, and no pumps beat their chest;
The tools were all hung in the derrick with care,
In hopes that more work would soon be there;
While visions of spinning chains danced in their heads;
The DD’s in Nomex, and me in my shack,
Had just settled down for a wiper trip nap,
I sprang from the couch to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the blinds, and pulled up the sash.
Gave the lustre of mid-day to tongs down below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a Polaris side-by-side, pulled by eight tiny deer,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than Medics his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
On, CHRISTOPHER! on JASON! on, STEPHEN and DEVON!
To the top of the doghouse! to the top of the tanks!
Now dash a bit faster, up over the banks!”
When met with the pipe racks, mount to the sky,
So up to the crown the coursers they flew,
With a Ranger of toys, and St. Nicholas too.
The prancing and pawing of of hooves with a clack.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Through the escape door, St. Nicholas came with a bound.
And his Dunlops all tarnished with invert and soot;
A bundle of joy he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a bit salesman, opening his pack.
His glasses, quite safety, his hard hat 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;
And the bubblegum fog round his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little beer belly,
That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.