Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the server
Not a player was stirring, not even an observer,
The packs were stacked by the trench with care,
In hopes that PaleRider soon would be there.
The clans were nestled all snug in their tread,
While visions of machine guns danced in their heads,
And Megatr0n in his ‘watch, and I in my ‘cap,
Had just settled our troops for a short winter's nap...
When out on the battlefield there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the parados to see what was the matter.
Away to the firestep I leapt out the foxhole,
Tore open the parapet and threw up the loophole.
The flare on the breastwork with new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects to and fro,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a Medium M4 tank, and eight fierce grenadier,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I looked like it only took one mouse click,
More rapid than horses his corps they came,
And he clicked, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Monkey! Now, Corey! Now ‘Bob’ Hitler and Fusion!
On, Sandman! On Sixpack! On Zhapeye and ODIN!
To the top of the trench! to the top of the wall!
Now iddy away! iddy away! umpty away all!"
As new flags that before the bloody battle capture,
When they meet with an opponent, bullets will enrapture,
So up to the parapet the corps they ran,
With the M4 full of munitions, and PaleRider too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard at the top of the wall
The pistol whipping and bashing of each foot soldier.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the firestep PaleRider came with a crashing sound.
He was dressed all in pea green, from his head to his foot,
And his helmet was all dented from bashes with a boot.
A bundle of guns he had flung on his back,
And he looked like Audie Murphy just opening up on the enemy’s attack.
His eyes -- how they twinkled -- his facepaint how scary!
His hair was in a mohaak, his nose like he had been drinking homemade sherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like he had been playing TOW,
And the beard of his chin was as black as 88’ed snow.
The stump of an exploded potatomasher he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a big ammo belt
That welt, when he moved, like heavy blows dealt.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old tank commander,
And I woohooed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And re-fitted my outfit; then turned with a jerk,
And aggressively bleeding from the side of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the firestep he rose.
He sprang to his M4, to his teams gave a click,
And away they all ran double quick.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-fight!"