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A Christmas poem for advisers

'Twas the days before Christmas, and on our website Not much was stirring; the news was quite light.

‘Twas the days before Christmas, and on our website
Not much was stirring; the news was quite light.
We worked to find stories and posted with care,
In hopes that our readers soon would be there.

Advisers were nestled all snug in their homes,
While visions of bull markets danced in their domes.
With an editor in a sweater and I in my cap,
We had settled our brains for a long weekend nap.

Then out in the hall there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the desk to attend to the matter.
Away from my cubicle I flew like a flash,
Tore round the corner, giving my knee a slight gash.

The light of the fixtures casting their glow
Gave the lustre of midday to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
“They dropped off this package, so with it I came,”
Said our poetic mail clerk, who knew not my name!

“Are you Dasher,” he queried, “or Dancer or Vixen?”
“Or Comet or Cupid or Donner or Blitzen?”
“I’m Cooper,” I mumbled, “And I’ll take this gift.”
“Now go back to the mailroom,” I told him, quite miffed.
Instead of a bottle or chocolates or cake,
I’d received a toy Santa from some kind of flake.
While valuable goodies are strictly taboo,
There’s no harm in cookies or sweets filled with goo.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard a slight noise —
Twas the prancing and pawing of those little tin toys.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Out from the air duct came St. Nick with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with Manhattan black soot.
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.

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 was chubby and plump, 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.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And wrote all our stories, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the air duct he rose!
“He wrote such good stories,” I said, quite amazed.
“But let’s change his byline, or our readers be fazed.”
Pardon the phrasing, I beg with aplomb
But if you just saw Santa wouldn’t you too be numb?
Then off 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!”