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‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through ultima snappy
Not a creature was stirring, not even a rappy;
The stockings were hung by the ship with care,
In hopes that St. Cyanide soon would be there;
The players were restless all filled with dreads,
While visions of happy hours danced in their heads;
And Soly in his ’kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s rap,
When out on the crater there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the ship to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew into the tower,

Tore open the shutters and turned up happy hour.

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