Post by Primarch on Dec 26, 2009 3:00:41 GMT
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.
It wasn't perfectly accurate, but everyone was in bed. Everyone except for Alexander Linton Davis, Irish Man extraordinare. Not only was he up, but adorned in a full Santa outfit, he wasn't a fat Santa, he was that more well built Santa all the kids were crazy about these days....and his white beard was more of a heavy golden blonde goatee.
T'was none the matter, because he still had the ever important presents, and at this late hour he was nowhere else to be found, but as if my magic! (or perhaps mutant powers) floating outside the window of one Emma Frost. With a rap-a-tap-tap he put his knuckles against the window, waiting to be let he to give his gift, and hoping to get something special back.
