Some Christmas Amusement for Firefly's from my Demented Brain..

A visit from St. Nackolas.. (and some Xmas Reavers..)


'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the bar,
Nothing was stirring, not even Nack's car.
The tip jars were hung by the old truck with care,
In hopes that St. Nackolas soon would be there;
The dancers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of lingerie danced in their heads;
And me in my headphones, I gave Laur a glance,
We'd just settled down for a Firefly's Dance,
When out on the porch there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the booth to see what was the matter.
Away to the window Immy flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen dust
Gave the lustre of decay to snow and to rust,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a dirt-ridin' Jeep, trying to steer!
With a little old driver, so lively and stacked,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nack.
More rapid than Lindens his Militia they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Leetie! now, Sabby! now, Immy and Meyers!
On, Cholgosh! on Lorie! , watch out for the fires!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the bar!
Now fire away! fire away! Reavers ain't far!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the porch-top the Militia they flew,
With the guns full of ammo, and St. Nackolas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the top
The screaming and ranting, Oh God, make it stop!
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down into the bunker Nack came with a bound.
He was dressed all in leather, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of guns he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a mercenary just waiting to snap.
His eyes -- how they twinkled! his weapons how shiny!
His boots they were spiky, his 'leet not at all whiny!
His droll little mouth was drawn up in a sneer,
And the lift of his brow, whch was really quite queer;
The stump of an arm he held tight in his hand,
And the carnage around him, boy it was grand;
He had a broad face and a .357,
That was guaranteed to take some reavers to heaven.
He was stacked and built, a right jolly old cuss,
And I felt better when I saw him, like the rest of us;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know the reavers were dead;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
No luck for the reavers, I thought with a snerk,
And laying his guns on the counter with care,
And giving a nod, we could do nothing but stare;
He sprang to the Mule, to the Militia gave a yell,
And away we all flew like a bat outta hell.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he ran out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, Good Killing Tonight!"