An Author’s Lament on Christmas Eve

‘Twas the night before Christmas,

And the author said ‘damn’

I need to get this book

Into my publisher’s hands

Her children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While she got two aspirins for the pain in her head,

Mama in her kerchief and papa in his cap,

She hoped this last revision would be but a snap

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

She hopped from her laptop to see what the hell happened now?

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,

Gave a luster of midday to objects below,

When what to her wondering eyes should appear

But her hero dressed as Santa without a white beard−or shirt

His eyes, how they twinkled! His dimples how cool!

His cheeks were like roses, his chest made her drool

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

Fixing the scene in her book where she’d made him a jerk,

And laying his finger under her chin,

He gave her a kiss as wicked as sin,

He sprang to his horse, to his horse gave a whistle,

And left her alone with nothing but sizzle.

But she heard him exclaim, ere he rode out of sight

Get your ass back to work, it will be a long night!

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