The rhythm is often off since I haven’t sat down with it as much as I would like. It’s not even finished, really, and I wouldn’t be surprised if thousands of people have already undertaken to do the same. After all, Edgar Allen Poe was a genius and Clement Clarke Moore’s poem lies close to the modern practices. Ah well, at least it’s good for a laugh: “T’was The Night Before Christmas to The Tune of The Raven”.
T’was the night before Christmas Evening, as children slept (all weak and weary)
and naught a mouse was appearing, throughout my silent house,
that past my stockings hanging, there suddenly came a banging
As if someone quickly landing upon my lawn outdoors
‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered “this is all…
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in cold December where each family member
Lay down upon his (or her) precious bed.
My dearie’s kerchief flapping, and my head all night-capping,
And sugar-plums all a-clapping within our sleepy heads.
But that infernal clatter forced me to check the matter
as I jumped up out of my bed,
thus to the window I was led.
Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering fearing
And then, suddenly, hearing a hefty voice appealing eight fearsome reindeer all by name!
“Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen!”
Shouted out and then revealing a sleigh that they bore
And a little Old Driver dressed in days of yore.
Furred from head to foot, under layers of chimney soot, there he rode he with all the presents that he bore.
Chubby, plump, sweet and cheery, eyes a-twinkling, dimples merry, rosèd cheeks and nose-like cherry fast he entered in my chamber door.
Not the least obeisance made he, nor a chuckle gave he, as he walked right past me
“No! It can’t be!” I gasped “Old St. Nick?”
Thus he answered: “Ho Ho Ho.”