*With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore
Twas a week and half before Christmas, when all through Officeland
All creatures were braying, like an out-of-tune-band.
All files and phone-calls were ignored, like no one gave a fig,
The holiday office party was about to start, it was time to eat like a pig!
The social workers were going crazy, like bugs in a bed,
While visions of vacation time danced through their heads.
While some wore a ‘kerchief, and some wore a cap,
Most had just settled their brains for a long afternoon's nap.
When out in the conference room, there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my cubicle to see what was the matter.
Down the long hallway I flew like a flash,
I was hoping for a Christmas Bonus - extra holiday cash.
But the florescent lights, with their unsparing glare,
Only revealed what was going on there.
When, what to my blood-shot eyes should appear,
But a room filled with baked goods, pasta, and even the meat of a reindeer.
And there stood a man, hacking away at a turkey, like a mountain man logger,
I knew in a moment it must be my pal, co-worker, and co-blogger.
More rapid than a samurai sword, his chef knives they glistened,
And he whistled, and shouted, to anyone who would listen!
"I've been up all night cooking, in spite of the flu! and whatever is left over, will be made into a stew! Here's stuffing, and cranberry, and a pudding made of yam, Now eat it all up, or I'll kick you all in the can!"
And then, in a twinkling, I watched a stampede,
of hungry social workers, aching to feed.
They shoved food in their mouths at every turn,
and worried, not at all, about possible heart-burn.
Some gorged on cookies, while others gulped Coke,
still others swallowed ham that had been smoked.
So they ate and they ate until they could eat no more,
many got stomach aches, while some fell to the floor.
But social workers are a hearty lot,
and they even ate more, before they finally gave out.
Not a plate was left untouched, not a cookie un-dunked,
Me, I was feeling woozy, sort of like I'd been punched.
Tired of giblets floating in gravy, and bored with false tidings of cheer,
I gathered my belongings and got into gear.
I snuck down the back steps, as if my feet had wings,
and ran through the parking lot dreaming of good things,
And as I put the pedal to the medal, and turned the radio up loud,
I laughed to myself, leaving dust and debris in my wake of the crowd.
And I heard myself say, as I drove through the parking lot maze,
Happy Christmas, Officeland, but next year, I'd like a raise!