'Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house
not a creature was stirring not even a moss mouse;
The rods were hung in there racks with great care,
In hopes that next spring soon would soon be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of new crankbaits danced in their heads;
And Ma in her 'kerchief, and I in my Bass Cap,
had just settled in for a long winters' nap,
When out on the pond there arose such a splatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
tore open the shutter, and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
gave the lustre of mid-day on the bass down below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a miniature Ranger all packed full of gear.
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick!
More rapid than Rat-L-Traps his courses they came,
as he whistled and shouted and pulled out his baits;
Now ZIPPER! Now BANJO! Now SHADOW, and JITTERBUG!
On POP-R! On THUNDERSTICK! On CHICADA and MUDBUG!
To the back of the pads, where the big bass will fall;
now cast away, cast away, cast away all!
A variation of the story "Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas"
by Clement Clarke Moore (1779-1863)
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