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The pallets were stacked on the racking with care, in hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there

Editorial – December’18 / January’19

Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is – wait, what was that?

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the warehouse,
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse (thanks to Rentokil). 

The pallets were stacked on the racking with care,
in hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there.

The executives nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of profits danced in their heads.

And the foreman in his overalls, and I in my hard hat,
had just settled our brains for a well-earned nap.

When out on the hardstand there arose such a clatter, 
I sprang from my seat to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,
tore open the roller door, and threw up the sash.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a KiwiRail wagon pulled by eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a minute it must be Saint Nick!

More rapid than rabbits his coursers they came,
and he whistled and shouted and called them by name.

“Now, Haki! Now, Ruihi! Now, Koro and Reka! On, Tuki!
On, Hanu! On, Motu and Weka!”

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,
the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head and was turning around,
down from the mezzanine came Saint Nick in a bound.

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
and his tummy it wobbled from too many a six-pack.

His eyes, how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, and the smoke,
it encircled his head like a wreath (“Put that out,” yelled I, “this is a no-smoking zone!”)

He was chubby and plump – a right jolly old elf – and I laughed when I saw him,
in spite of myself.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
and filled all the pallets, then turned with a smirk.

And laying a finger aside of his nose,
and giving a nod, up to the roof he rose.

He sprang to his wagon with the merest dismissal,
and away they all flew with a merry little whistle.

But I heard him exclaim as they drove out of sight,
 “Happy Christmas FTD readers, and to all a good night.”

Until next time …
Lynne Richardson, editor

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