‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
Playoff wishes were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Sean Payton soon would be there;
Young Who Dats were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Super Bowls danced in their heads;
And mamma in her jersey, I in one that says Drew,
Had just settled down with some nice homebrew,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the cave to see what was the matter.
Away to the window like a flash I flew,
Tore open the shutters, almost threw up my brew.
The moon on the frost on the new flower bed
Gave a luster like Dome lights on Scott Shanle’s head,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear.
But a miniature coach and eight receivers in gear,
With a hurried driver, not someone you wait on,
I knew in a moment it must be Sean Payton.
More rapid than Eagles his receivers they came,
And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now Meachem! Now Moore! Now Graham and Colston!
On Shockey! On Thomas! On, Bush and Henderson!
To the top of the post! To the flats for the screen!
Now run your routes! Run your routes! Run your routes clean!”
As dried up players may want to give us their best,
When they meet with an obstacle, run east and west,
So up to an end-zone the receivers they flew,
With no running game, and Sean Payton too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard a big thump
And a far away voice yelling, “Cut that chump!”
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the chimney Sean Payton came with a bound.
He was dressed in black pants, part of a bad luck suit,
And his clothes were all sticky from Juicy Fruit:
A bundle of pass plays he had on his back,
And he looked like Air Coryell just opening his pack.
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 Vicodin on his lips was white as the snow;
The stump of a pill he held tight in his teeth,
And the buzz 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.
He was chubby and plump, he had gotten thicker,
And I laughed when I thought he’s like Fat Punk Kicker;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled a playoff wish; then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the standings he rose;
He sprung to his sleigh, to his team gave a day off,
And away they all flew to advance in the playoff.
But I heard him exclaim, as he gave Bush a bat,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a Two Dat.”