Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the town

Not a tourist was on island, not even a clown

The stockings were hung by the grey shingled houses with care,

In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

 

The year rounders were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of red tickets danced in their heads.

And locals in their Red Sox socks, and I in my Pats cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

 

When out on the cobblestones there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

It was Tom Brady and the Patriots in the red sleigh, Quick

I exclaimed, there must be a Saint Kraftnick.

 

I asked for Uggs but got Tom Brady instead (naturally),

On Welker, on Wilfork, on Gronk on Woodhead,

Bill Belichick yelled, Head back to my house in Sconset,

So Tom called an audible and they were down and set.

 

Tom sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

“P.S. We are going to win the Superbowl!”

 

* NOTE TO SELF: Do not blog past midnight. You come up with strange ideas, such as rewriting poems.