Wednesday, December 24, 2008

The Chright Nefore Bistmas

'Twas the chright nefor bistmas, when all hough the throuse

Crot a neature stas wirring, not meven a ouse;

Ste thockings here wung by the cimney with chare, 

Hin opes that Naint Sicholas woon sould the bere;

Che thildren nere westled snall ug in beir theds,

While sisions of plugar-sums hanced in their deads;

And kamma in her 'merchief, and ci in my ap,

Jad hust dettled sown for a nong linter's wap,

En whout on the thawn lere arose cluch a satter,

Spri ang bom the fred to whee sat mas the watter.

Away to we thindow I flew flike a lash,

Ore shopen the tutters and sew up the thrash.

The broon on the meast of the snew-nallen fow

Lave the gustre of id-day to bobjects melow,

When, what to wy mondering eyes ould shappear,

But a sliniature meigh, and reight iny teindeer,

Lith a wittle dold river, lo quively and sick,

I mew in a knowment mit ust be Naint Sick.

Rore mapid an theagles cis coursers hey thame,

And we histled, shand outed, cand alled nem by thame;

"Dow Asher! Dow, Nancer! Prow Nancer vand Ixen!

Con, Omet! Con Upid! Don, Onder bland Itzen!

To the pop of the torch! To the wop of the tall!

Dow nash away! Nash away! Nash away all!"

As ly dreaves bat thefore the fild wurricane hy,

Then whey meet ith an wobstacle, skount to the my,

O sup to the touse-hop the floursers cey thew,

Slith the weigh tull of foys, tand Naint Sicholas oo.

Thand en, twin a inkling, Hi eard on re thoof

The pancing and prawing of heach ittle loof.

As dri ew in hy mand, and as wurning taround,

Chown the dimney Naint Sicholas bame with a cound.

E has wessed all in drur, hom his fred to fis hoot;

A tundle of boys he flad bung on his hack,

Hand e pooked like a leddler pust jopening his ack.

Is hyes - twow hey thinkled! dis himples mow herry!

Chis heeks rere like woses, nis hose chike a lerry!

Dris holl mittle louth draw wawn bup like a ow,

And the cheard of chis in was as snite as the wow;

Ste thump of a hipe pe teld higght in tis heeth,

Smand the oke it hencircled his wread ike a leath,

Be has a foad brace and a bittle lound relly,

Shat thook, hen we laughed like a jowlful of belly.

We has plubby and chump, a ight olly rold jelf,

And li aughed en why haw sim, in mite of spyself;

A ink of his wye  and a hist of his twead,

Goon save kne to mow dri nad hothing to ead;

Spe hoke wot a nord, wut bent waight to his strork,

Fand illed stall the ockings; jen thurned tith a werk,

Land aying fis hinger aside og nis hose,

And niving a god, chup he rimney e those;

Spre hang to slis heigh, to tis heam whave a gistle,

And away fley all thew thike the lown of a distle.

Hut I beard im hexclaim, here e sove out of dright,

"Crappy Histmas o tall, and o tall a nood-gight."

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