’Twas the night before Retirement, when all through the blog
Not a keyboard was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stories and poems were all hung with care,
In hopes that Goines On soon would be there;
The writers were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of agents danced in their heads;
And mamma in her ’kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a lustre of midday to poetry below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But Moristotle and Company, oh my, oh dear!
With a little old driver so lively in tow,
I knew in a moment he must be old Mo.
More rapid than eagles his bloggers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Motomynd! Now, James!, Roger!, Ed! Now, Geoffrey!
On, Bob! On, Michael! On, Christa!, James!, and Shirley!
On, André!, Penelope!, Valeria! On Eric! and Jonathan!
On, Chuck!, Bettina!, Maik!, and Jim! Now, Neil!, Kyle!, and Ken!
On, William! On, Susan! Fly Rolf!, Tom!, Victor! Ahead!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”
As leaves that before the blogosphere fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the housetop the bloggers they flew
With the bag full of essays, and Goines On too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little ouphe.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney came old Mo with a bound.
He was dressed all in words, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with edits and proofs;
A bundle of stories he had flung on his back,
He was an author of shocklogs and fictional vignettes.
His eyes—how they twinkled at the writings, so many!
His cheeks were like brackets, his nose like a comma!
His droll little mouth, tales of Goines On and drama.
And the tags and taglines, as precise as can be;
The end of his pen he held tight in his teeth,
And his thoughts, they encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a face that was broad and a mind like a medley
That shook when he laughed, of verbiage aplenty.
He was Editor in Chief, 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 filled all the blog 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 them exclaim, ’ere they drove out of sight—
“Happy Retirement to Mo, and to all a good night!”
| Copyright © 2023 by Bettina Sperry |
Thank you, Bettina! Jim Carney says you did a better job playing off someone else’s poem than he did.
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