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'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the net,
Not a user was stirring, not even Dennett.
A stocking was hung from my drive bay with care
In the hopes that Falcon 3.0 soon would be there.
The children were logged off, asleep in their beds
While visions of leeched downloads danced in their heads.
And I, in my undies, booted up, checked the line,
and had just started Procomm and called the Grapevine.
Then out from my speaker there arose such a squeal,
That I paged the sysop to see what was the deal!
He was not there, but so he could see what I'd suffered,
I hit ALT-F1 to start a capture buffer.
The light from the monitor in my direction
Gave a luster of green to my anxious reflection,
Then on the screen appeared a manifestation
Of a miniature Cray and eight corporations
With a smooth operator, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick!
More swiftly than Seagates his software firms came,
And he zipped up their programs and called them by name.
On Borland! On Norton! On Microsoft, Gates!
On Origin, Sierra and (yuck!) Ashton Tate!
On EA! On Lotus! To the C drive, y'all,
Now hack away, hack away, hack away, all!
As downloading protocols correct on the fly,
When they meet with an error, back up and retry,
So onto the hard disk the programs they flew
With a bundle of files and St. Nickalaus, too.
And then in a burst they all came through my modem,
My display flared bright as he started to load 'em,
As I reached for the contrast and was turning it down,
Straight out to DOS St. Nick shelled with a bound.
He was wired on Jolt from his head to his feetos,
His clothing was covered with crumbs of Doritos,
Had had Microsoft Bookshelf on a CD pack,
And he looked like a hacker just starting a crack.
His eyes were glazed over, his pimples like berries,
Even in VGA he looked pretty darned scary!
His poly-knit pants were drawn up to his shins,
And his oxford cloth shirt was as white as his skin,
A plastic protector was stuck in his pocket,
His hair stood from his head like he'd licked a live socket,
He had a pale face that wore tape-repaired glasses,
And he shook like a drive right before the thing crashes.
He was clumsy but friendly, for a nerd he was swell,
And I laughed when I saw him in spite of the smell,
The look in his eyes and his terrible stutter,
Soon gave me know he had nothing to utter,
He said not a word but went straight to my files,
And filled all my directories, then turned with a smile,
He formed a keyboard of pixels and typed in "EXIT",
And hitting RETURN, back to Procomm he quit.
He sprang to his Cray, to his team gave a whisle
And through RimeNet they flew like a routed epistle,
But I heard him exclaim as he soared through the heavens,
"You'll wait until NEXT Christmas for Ultima VII!"
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