A CHAOS THEORY CHRISTMAS
Based upon ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas’
Written in 1882 by Clement C. Moore
Adapted for FFXIV:ARR by Robotrek
‘Twas the night before Kwehsmas, when all through Eorzea
Not a primal was stirring, not even Garuda;
The stockings were hung o’er the cookfires with care,
In hopes that Saint Vikolas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of elementals danced in their heads;
And my wife in her shift, and I without pants,
Had just settled in for a long evening’s dance,
When out in the town there arose such a clatter,
I leaped out of bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash
(but not before donning my pants and a sash.)
The moon shone so bright on the new-fallen snow,
Thieves caught in its light had nowhere to go.
When, what to my light-blinded eyes should appear
But an overladen sleigh, and eight Lala reindeer.
With a tipsy gruff driver, so unsteady yet quick,
I knew in a moment it must be Saint Vik.
More rapid than slugs his coursers they came,
And he belched, then cursing, he called them by name:
“Now Ponzi! now, Zaza! Now, Reaper and Aura!
Alejo, Noctura, Cephiros, DaloCota!
“To the top of the stables! To the “hic” of the Keep!
Use the ladder now friends, while they’re still a-shleep!”
As dry leaves that before the hurricane fly,
If something blocks ‘em, Ichi blows it sky-high!
So up to the house-top the Lalas they climb,
With the ungainly sleigh, and St. Vik right behind.
And then, with a thumping, I heard on the roof,
Nia say “Vik, no more milk that’s 100 proof!”
As soon as I found a safe place for our cash,
Down the chimney St. Vikolas fell with a crash.
To put out some flames, he stomped on his foot,
His red clothes were covered with ale stains and soot.
A bundle of stuff he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a beggar-man opening his sack.
His eyes – how bloodshot! His breath – oh so boozy!
His whole face was flushed like an overworked floozy!
His sly crafty mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was white as plowed snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
Grinding it to small pieces that fell underneath.
He wore a headdress of chocobo feathers,
And yellow fluff adorned his Grand Company leather,
He was grim yet grinning, spreading warmth (not from drinking)
“For a killer, he’s not such a bad sort,” I was thinking.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head.
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He belched and he burped, and went straight to work,
And filled all the stockings, and then with a jerk,
His Lalas filed out and said, “It’s time we goes!”
And pulled by a rope, up the chimney he rose!
He jumped on his sleigh, which fell off with a thunk!
But he got up and back on, the feathered old drunk!
And I heard him slur out, ‘ere he rode out of sight,
Kupo Kwehsmas to all, and a Warky-Wark night!
May your Christmas Season be filled with happy chaos!
*From all of us at the Chaos Chronicles*