AngryCow
Dalayan Elder
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the server
Many creatures were spawning, causing a fervor.
The phat loots were stored in inventories with care,
In hopes that St Grinkles would ne'er be there.
Everyone gated Athica, though the steps were quite cramped.
All the guilds finished raiding, and everyone camped.
The players then nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of platinums danced in their heads.
When out in the Faydarks there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a sparrow,
Tore open the shutters and nocked my best arrow.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to the trees below.
When, with a view that caused me to gawk
Appeared a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny froglok.
With a little old driver, so lively with drink,
I knew in a moment it must be St Grink.
More rapid than phoenixes his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
"Now Thrasher! now, Cancer! now, Lancer and Nixon!
On, Vomit! On, Druid! On Fuwok and Blitzen!
To the top of the city! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the ancient wind torrent fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Loots, and St Grinkles too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard from the street
The drum-rolling padding of each of their feet.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Grinkles came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of phats he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a burglar, just opening his pack.
His eyes-how they gleamed! his dimples were scary!
His cheeks were like mold, his nose was quite hairy!
The beard of his chin was as white as the snow,
And his green trollish features made me cry in woe.
The stump of a halfling he held tight in his teeth,
And the blood crossed his chest like a ghastly sheath.
He had a mottled face and a little round belly,
That shook when he cackled, like a bowlful of jelly!
He was chubby and plump, and stank like a drunk elf,
And I cringed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his spine,
Soon caused me to wonder if I had little time.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And stole all of my loots, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger inside of his nose,
He gave a quick nod, and up the chimney he rose!
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And they all disappeared like someone looking for Gristle.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove into the twilight,
"Give me more loots or I'll crash the server tonight!"
Many creatures were spawning, causing a fervor.
The phat loots were stored in inventories with care,
In hopes that St Grinkles would ne'er be there.
Everyone gated Athica, though the steps were quite cramped.
All the guilds finished raiding, and everyone camped.
The players then nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of platinums danced in their heads.
When out in the Faydarks there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a sparrow,
Tore open the shutters and nocked my best arrow.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to the trees below.
When, with a view that caused me to gawk
Appeared a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny froglok.
With a little old driver, so lively with drink,
I knew in a moment it must be St Grink.
More rapid than phoenixes his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
"Now Thrasher! now, Cancer! now, Lancer and Nixon!
On, Vomit! On, Druid! On Fuwok and Blitzen!
To the top of the city! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the ancient wind torrent fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Loots, and St Grinkles too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard from the street
The drum-rolling padding of each of their feet.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Grinkles came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of phats he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a burglar, just opening his pack.
His eyes-how they gleamed! his dimples were scary!
His cheeks were like mold, his nose was quite hairy!
The beard of his chin was as white as the snow,
And his green trollish features made me cry in woe.
The stump of a halfling he held tight in his teeth,
And the blood crossed his chest like a ghastly sheath.
He had a mottled face and a little round belly,
That shook when he cackled, like a bowlful of jelly!
He was chubby and plump, and stank like a drunk elf,
And I cringed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his spine,
Soon caused me to wonder if I had little time.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And stole all of my loots, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger inside of his nose,
He gave a quick nod, and up the chimney he rose!
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And they all disappeared like someone looking for Gristle.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove into the twilight,
"Give me more loots or I'll crash the server tonight!"
