‘Twas the night before DINKmas, when all through First Ward
Not a hoodlum was stirring, not even drunkards;
Not a hoodlum was stirring, not even drunkards;
The blog posts were typed into WordPress with care,
In hopes that St. Blogtraffic soon would be there;
The kitty was nestled all snug in her bed,
While visions of heavy cream danced in her head;
And Mark in his scrub pants, and I in my fleece,
Had put away laptops and headed to sleep,
When out on our block there arose such a clatter,
Mark grabbed his shotgun to see what was the matter.
And down to the second floor windows we flew
(The hurricane panels on three block the view).
The streetlamps and warehouse lights piercing the night
Gave the lustre of mid-day to all in our sight,
When, what should make both of us do double-takes,
But a shiny cakeplate, and eight frosted cupcakes,
And a little blonde woman, in hand-knitted scarf,
I knew it could only be Martha Stewart.
More tasty than cookies her cupcakes they came,
And she whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, chocolate! red velvet! now, ginger & lime!
On, spice cake! on, creme-filled! on, lemon & thyme!
With buttercream frosting! With chocolate ganache!
Now dash on some sprinkles! Dash them on fast!”
And before the icing could become too dry,
They followed her orders to quickly comply,
So sprinkle they did and then up they flew,
With the shiny cakeplate, and Ms. Stewart too.
And up on the roof I could hear them amass
I hoped she realized that our fireplace is gas.
As I said this to Mark, and was turning around,
Down the staircase Ms. Stewart did come with a bound.
She was dressed in St. John, from her head to her feet,
She was dressed in St. John, from her head to her feet,
With an apron which, of course, had been ironed neat;
And despite all the action her hair was no worse,
And she gave me a grin as she opened her purse.
Her eyes — how they twinkled! her smile how merry!
Each cheek like a rose or a little Bing cherry!
Her lips painted pink with perfect Cupid’s bow,
Her lips painted pink with perfect Cupid’s bow,
And her perfume may have been Chanel, I don’t know;
Her heels were sky-high and a glistening black,
Across our wood floors they went clickety-clack;
In her purse I could see she had several crafts,
I thought, ‘Why in the world don’t mine turn out like that?’
Here she was in the flesh, a daytime tv star
(though she looks a bit younger when seen from afar);
A wink of her eye and a twist of her head,
Although an ex-con, there was nothing to dread;
She spoke not a word, but went straight to her work,
And baked up some goodies; then turned with a jerk,
And grabbing a towel to clean off her hands,
And giving a nod, up the staircase she ran;
And giving a nod, up the staircase she ran;
She jumped in her ride, gave her cupcakes a whistle,
And away they all flew like a Soviet missile.
But I heard her exclaim, ere she soared out of sight,
“Tasty baked goods to all, and to all a good-night.”
