DISCLAIMER: 'The Night Before Christmas', written by Clement C. Moore. As stated, I didn't write the poem, merely adapted parts of it to fit in with the BoP universe. And the TV BoP folks belong to a whole bunch of people, none of whom are me <g>. I made no money from this work, in case any legal types are reading <g>.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: To those of you who aren't from the US and who don't know the original poem, you can find it here here . Normally, I don't mess around with classics like this. But my mom recently sent me a copy of an adaptation I did of this poem when I was like 14 or 15 (scary), and it started the wheels turning. Hopefully, this will entertain you for a few moments in the midst of your busy holiday season.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
The Night Before Christmas
By ocean gazer
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the Clocktower,
not a person was stirring, nor using meta-human powers;
the stockings were hung all along the banister with care,
in hopes that St. Nicholas (or Alfred) soon would be there.
Dinah and Gabby were nestled all snug in a bed,
while visions of pop tarts danced in their heads;
and Helena in her sweats and I in my long-sleeved tee,
had just settled down to try and catch a few zzz's;
when out on the balcony there arose such a clatter,
I pulled myself out of bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the sliding doors I wheeled like a flurry,
opened the curtains and popped the latch in a hurry.
The moon shining down on a dusting of snow
gave the lustre of mid-day to the city streets below,
when what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a miniature Batmobile and six tiny reindeer,
with a solemn and careful driver, so intense and so quick,
I realized it was Bruce Wayne – though tonight he was St. Nick.
More rapid than superheroes his coursers they came,
and he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Dick! Now, Carolyn! Come on now, Selina!
On, Robin! On, Canary! On, my dear Catwoman!
To the top of the railing! To the gargoyle on the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wrath of Harley Quinn fly,
when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
so up to the gargoyle the reindeer they flew,
with the Batmobile full of gifts, and St. Nicholas too.
And then in a twinkling, I heard up above
the prancing of hooves, like they were muffled in gloves.
As I wheeled back inside and was turning around,
down the staircase Bruce Wayne slid with a bound.
He wore a red cape, from his head to his foot,
and his outfit was tarnished with grime and city soot;
a bagful of presents he'd draped over his back,
and he looked like a street vendor opening his pack.
His eyes actually twinkled! And his face, it looked merry,
despite cheeks pinched with cold and nose red as a cherry!
His solemn expression had faded and he let a smile show,
and his graying hair sparkled with little flakes of snow;
a Cuban cigar he held tight in his teeth,
and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
in the years since I'd seen him, he'd grown a potbelly,
and it shook when he chuckled, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was happy and plump and really looked like an elf,
and I laughed when I saw him in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a nod of his head,
soon let me know I had nothing to dread;
he said not a word, but went straight to his work,
and filled all our stockings, then turned with a jerk;
drawing his bag of presents over his back anew,
he blew me a kiss, then out the window he flew.
He leapt into the Batmobile, to his team gave a whistle,
and flew into the New Gotham night, like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas, my dear Barbara, and to all a good night."
The End