A Classic from the Archives: CROCHETERS CHRISTMAS EVE Poem

Originally posted on Friday, December 22. 2006, slightly updated in 2010:

CROCHETERS CHRISTMAS EVE Poem

adapted by me, Dee Stanziano

'Twas the night before Christmas and all around me

Was unfinished crocheting not under the tree.

The stockings weren't hung by the chimney with care
'Cause the heels and toes had not a stitch there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

But I had not finished the caps for their heads.

Dad was asleep; he was no help at all,

And the sweater for him was six inches too small,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter

I put down my hooks to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tripped over my yarn and fell down with a crash.

The tangle of yarn that lay deep as the snow

Reminded me how much I still had to go.

Out on my lawn I heard such a noise,

I thought it would wake both Dad and the boys.
And though I was tired, my brain a bit thick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.

But what I heard then left me perplex-ed,
For not a name I heard was what I expected,
"Move, DyakCraft! Move, Lacis! Move, NaturallyCaron and Clover!
Move, Boye! Move Woolease! Move Ravelry --move over

Paton, don't circle 'round; stand in the line.

Come now, you sheep will work out just fine!

I know this is hard; it's just your first year,

I'd hate to go back to eight tiny reindeer."

I peered over the sill; what I saw was amazing,
Eight wooly sheep on my lawn all a-grazing.
And then, in a twinkle, I heard at the door
Santa's feet coming across my porch floor.
I rose from my knees and got back on my feet,
And as I turned 'round St. Nick I did meet.

He was dressed all in wool from his head to his toe,
And his clothes were hand-crocheted from above to below.
A bright Tunisian sweater he wore on his back,

And his toys were all stuffed in an cool cro-knit sack.

His cap was a wonder of bobbles and lace
A beautiful frame for his rosy red face.

The scarf 'round his neck could have stretched for a mile,

And the socks peeking over his boots were Argyle.
The back of his mittens bore an intricate cable.
And suddenly on one I espied a small label,

"S.C." was duplicate stitched on the cuff,

And I asked, "Hey, Nick, did you crochet all this stuff?"
He proudly replied, "Ho, ho, ho, yes I did.
I learned how to crochet when I was a kid."

He was chubby and plump, a quite well-dressed old man,
And I laughed to myself, for I'd thought up a plan.
I flashed him a grin and jumped up in the air,
And the next thing he knew, he was tied to a chair,
He spoke not a word, but looked in his lap
Where I'd laid my hook and yarn for a cap.
He quickly began crocheting, first one cap then two,
For the first time I thought I might really get through.
He put heels in the stockings and toes in some socks.
While I sat back drinking scotch on the rocks.
So quickly like magic his stitches they flew
That he was all finished by quarter to two.
He sprang for his sleigh when I let him go free,
And over his shoulder he looked back at me,
And I heard him exclaim as he sailed past the moon,
"Next year start your crocheting sometime around June!"

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*** note: this was a *knitters* poem, based on Clement Moore's "The Night Before Christmas," that I changed in 2005 to reflect crochet. I do not know who the original author of the knit version is/was.  If you know, please let me know so I can give proper credit; thanks.  :)