A Christmas Poem by Mr. Peakerman
T’was the Night Before Christmas…T’was the night before Christmas and all through the station, not a disc jockey stirred for they were on vacation…
The stockings were hung by the transmitter with care, in hopes that St. Peakerman soon would be there.
The DJs were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of HD radios danced in their heads.
And Detour Dan in his kerchief, and Scotty wearing his golf hat, had just settled down for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the gravel-filled driveway there arose such a clatter, the two men sprang from their bed to see if St. Peakerman had gotten fatter.
Away to the window they flew like a flash, knocking over records from Journey, Lee Michaels, The Clash!
They mooned the neighborhood and a rooster began to crow. White butt cheeks gave the luster of mid-day to objects below.
When what to their wandering eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh, and eight medium reindeer!
With a little old driver, so lively and gay, they knew in a moment it must be St. Peakerman – and his Mercedes Benz sleigh!
More rapid than eagles, his reindeer, they came! And he whistled and shouted and called them by name!
Now Amy! Now Mary! Now Monica! And Mini!
On Steve! On Heather! On Scotty and Detour Dan!
To the top of the patio! To the top of the wall!
Now prance away! Dance away! Boogie down all!
As dry leaves during the wild haboob do fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the station top the reindeer they flew,
With a sleigh full of records and St. Peakerman too!
And then in a tinkling we heard on the roof, the prancing and pawing of each Prada-clad hoof,
As Scotty drew in his hand and was turning around, still in the buff and with a gut so round,
Down the chimney St. Peakerman came with a bound!
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, complete with red PETA paint, his clothes tarnished with soot;
A bundle of Peak swag he’d flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his sack.
His eyes without crow’s feet, his dimples, how merry,
His plastic surgery seemed to be working, his nose like a cherry,
His fat little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was not white as the snow;
The result of much Grecian formula with Scottsdale’s whitest teeth,
The smell of patchouli and a happy aura encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed like watching Regis and Kelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
He should start working out with Steve to get rid of that shelf;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave us to know we had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose, (kinda like Whitney Houston, but in a good way),
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his Mercedes sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle,
But Scotty heard him explain as he drove out of sight,
Merry Reilly to all and to all a good night!
