Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the shed
Not a single ‘bot was stirring, as they were all dead.
Wet socks were hung over my doorway with care,
In hopes that a can of “fix-a-butt-flap” soon would be there.

And while I was thrashing all uncomfy in my bed,
Visions of painkillers danced nightmarishly in my head.
Bank account empty, and last Christmas’s crap in the garage,
Had just settled my cranium for a nice winter’s lodge.

When out in the yard there arose such a splatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore down some StyrofoamTM, and scratched an old rash.

The earplugs in my ears like rocks in a mountain
Popped out like water from a gushing fountain.
When, what to my wandering eyes should arise,
But a miniature sled, and eight tiny robot mice.