Most of you are familiar with the Clement Clarke Moore poem A Visit from St. Nicholas, even though you might think it’s called ‘Twas the night before Christmas.
That made me realize that perhaps we really aren’t familiar with it at all.
And if that’s the case, then an annotated version of the poem is in order.
Luckily for you, I’ve decided to step up to the plate and perform this service myself. Below is the poem, with my annotations presented in italics.
I hope this provides you as well as your kith and kin great joy this holiday season.
You’re welcome …
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
We didn’t have pets, although we were planning on getting a shelter kitten after the holidays. We did have a slight rodent problem several months earlier but the kids smeared peanut butter on the neighbors’ side of the fence, and that seemed to take care of it.
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;
The kids had gotten hold of some of our edibles and ended up getting slightly high, resulting in their weird dreams. (We have a meeting with a social worker in January).
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Mom and me like to role play, so she put on a kerchief and pretended to be peasant woman who hoards pineapples while I donned a ball cap and became the “pizza delivery guy.” But then a loud noise interrupted our sexy time.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
I had eaten some bad sash earlier, and barfed.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a luster of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,
You don’t see a lot of miniature caribou, although small sleighs aren’t that uncommon, especially in toy stores. The combination, though, was noteworthy to me.
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.
Actually, at first, I thought it might be former NASCAR champion Jeff Gordon, who was also lively and quick. He’s retired now, though, I think. I don’t really follow motorsports.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
I had to look up coursers. It means “swift horses.” Not only are caribou not horses, but where the hell was Rudolph? This makes no sense.
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too
Again, with the swift horses. Whatever, man … it just seems disrespectful to the caribou.
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 the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
You’d be surprised how much damage hooves can do to roofs. It’d be interesting to see how many insurance claims are filed right after Christmas. I’m gonna at least get an estimate.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
A guy wearing dirty fur and carrying a big sack of toys normally has a lot of explaining to do, especially when police are present.
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 on his chin was as white as the snow;
He’d been day drinking – which is fine by me. I don’t judge.
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 bowl full of jelly.
Look, it’s a smoke-free home. I don’t want to be a dick, but you don’t just fire up a pipe in somebody else’s house.
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;
I wasn’t trying to body-shame him … it was just humorous to see a porky elf wearing dirty fur.
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, up the chimney he rose;
Apparently, he had so much sinus pressure it allowed him to launch himself back up the chimney. Kinda gross, but I guess it works.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
Imagine a small duck exploding. Take away the blood and horror, and it’s kinda like what flying thistle down looks like.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
Ditto, guys.