Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the site

Not a member was stirring, not even to write.

The stockings were stuffed through the network with care,

In the hopes that Santa Gort soon would be there.



The writers were chained all snug in their pits,

Dreaming of articles, and matches of wits.

Cody in sweats, and Machail in his chair,

Hatched a scheme of which no mortal would dare.



When out on the roof, there arose such a clatter,

They sprang from the room to see what was the matter.

Away to the window they flew in a snap,

To see if ol' Gort had flown into their trap.



The moon on the desk littered with paper

Highlighted the plan of the editors' caper.

Turning their heads to see the snow covered rooftop,

The site on the shingles made both of their mouths drop.



Santa Gort slid to the lawn all dressed in red,

While Cody and Machail had a feeling of dread.

In the blink of an eye his hammer dropped with a thud,

As he whistled, and shouted, like a wannabe stud.



"Now JoBildo! Now Taea! Now Shayalyn and Ralsu!

On, Medeor! On, Martuk! On Dalmarus and Sardu!

From the edge of the floor, to the top of the wall!

Now write away! Write away! Write away all!"



With a yell and a howl not meant to repulse,

They began typing wildly, thus climbing The Pulse.

The words began flying all written with care,

As Santa Gort gave Cody and Machail a hazy stare.



He was dressed up in red from his front to his rear,

And he smelled like little more than old spoiled beer.

A glowing Ten Ton Hammer he had dropped to the floor,

As he stumbled and weaved his way through the door.



His eyes - how they twinkled! His dimples, how fierce!

His cheeks were both sunken, and one of them pierced!

His droll little mouth was stuck in a pucker,

Like someone had salted his last candy sucker.



The stump of a cigarette hung from his lip,

As he stumbled and weaved and tried to get a grip.

He had a skinny face and a thin little belly,

That could have used a few more helpings of jelly.



He was tiny and shriveled, a right angry old goblin,

He stood partially steady and then began gobbin'.

"Too far have ye gone boys, Cody and Machail,

Keepin' yer writers all chained in that jail."



As the words left his lips he dropped to the floor,

Falling face first and started to snore.

At that point the editors knew they had won,

So picked up Santa Gort and started to run.



To this day I don't know where they hid Santa Gort,

Though I've recently heard it's become quite the sport.

You've stayed awake reading our articles, even pulling all-nighters,

So Happy Holidays to you from the Ten Ton Hammer staff writers.