[TerryP]

Hmm, just for something a little different from /dev/weird:

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the office


Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the coffee maker with care,
In hopes that St. Hacholas soon would be there;
The programmers were nestled all snug in their cublicals,
While visions of sugar-cookies danced in their heads;
And my laptop in her dockin' station, and I in my cup o'Java,
Had just settled down for a long winter's compile,


When out on the main floor there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my work station 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 the lustre of mid-day to objects below,


When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny computers,
With a little old coder, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Hacholas.
More rapid than eagles his computers, they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by hostname;

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!


To the top of the desk! to the top of the stack!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the desk-top the computers, they flew,
With the sleigh full of disks, and St. Hacholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the keys
The prancing and pawing of each little click,
as the programs came into being.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the hallway St. Hacholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in denium, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of disks 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 filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, out the window he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his computers 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-compile."