---- — ‘Twas the Night After Christmas
with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore
‘Twas the night after Christmas, when all through the town
It seemed that each smile turned into a frown,_
As people resumed their burdens of care,_
Even though St. Nicholas had just been there.__
When people were nestled all snug in their beds,_
The events of the year still danced in their heads._
We got ready for bed, finished up our nightcap,_
And just settled down for a long winter’s nap,__
When out of our thoughts there arose such a clatter,_
We woke from our sleep wondering what was the matter._
Away to the window we flew like a flash,_
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.__
But then we realized it was not the new-fallen snow_
But thoughts through our brain that continued to flow.
When, what to our wondering eyes should appear,_
But a giant billboard recounting the year,__
With headlines flashing by ever so quick,_
We feared for a moment we just might be sick.
More rapid than eagles the headlines they came,_
Reminding us of the year past, frame by frame.
With the Redskins, paid parking, the Classic game rain,_
Furthur, Shakedown Street; it all seemed insane.
Springfield’s Historic District was turned down
For fear it would be just like nearby Cooperstown.
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,_
The events of the year continued to pass by.
The Springfield parade was ninety-nine this year,
Which means next year there will be reason to cheer.
The CCS capital project did not need a roof_
But the tied vote seemed rather a goof._
Some Hall of Fame hopefuls are not this way bound
While attempts are made to turn Hall attendance around._
It seems the elections did not make everyone merry,_
Especially if one’s candidate did not the vote carry.
Still we are able to shop locally again this year
For gifts to give to those we hold so dear.
A bundle of toys, a T-shirt for one’s back,_
Shopping possibilities the village does not lack.
And the cars have been happy as potholes leave the street.
But we still might trip and fall as we walk with our feet.
As we struggle to sleep, we try to get it into our head
That we really, truly have nothing to dread.
But try as we might, sleep will simply not come
As ideas bounce around to the beat of a drum.
As we toss and turn with our head on our pillow,
We are thinking our brain might just turn to jello.
We try to banish from our mind every idea and thought
To allow the restful sleep we so longingly sought.
But suddenly we realize dawn is in sight,_
And we’d have to make sense of this some other night.
PLEASE NOTE: Comments regarding this column may be made by mail at 105 Pioneer Street, Cooperstown, NY 13326, by telephone at 607-547-8124 or by e-mail at email@example.com