Trace’s Night Before Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the hotel
not a creature was stirring in the residential hell.
The doors were all locked by the chains with care,
and the hallways were empty and barren and bare.

Trace’s child was nestled all snug in her bed,
in a land called Anaheim, a place full of dread.
He sent her a present by Amazon.com,
and settled in for some Wild Turkey balm.

When out on the roof there arose such a clatter,
He sprang from his bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window he flew like a flash,
tore open the drapes, and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of a crack-smokin’ ho
gave the lustre of midday to objects below,
when, what to his wondering eyes should appear,
but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
Trace knew in a moment the guy was a prick.
More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came,
and he whistled and shouted and called them by name:

“Now Dasher! Now Dancer!
Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid!
On, Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch!
To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away!
Dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
Trace grabbed his revolver and pointed it at the sky.
“Get the hell away, you gift giving fiend,”
cried Trace as he waved the gun and in the old man he gleaned
a look of fear, of genuine fright.
“Go the hell away,” cried Trace
“Return to the night.”

So off into the night the sleigh it flew
and in the morning Los Angeles was blue.
For Trace had frightened Santa away
but he will return some other day.