Twas the night before Swishmas, when all through the league
Not a player was stirring, not even Jeff Teague;
The nets were hung on the backboards with care,
In hopes that St. Nick Young soon would be there;
The Timberpuppies were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of third quarters danced in their heads;
And Russ in his t-shirts, and J.R. without his,
Had just settled for some ill-advised threes,
When out on the court there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my seat to see what was the matter.
Away to the TV I flew like The Flash,
Saw Jimmy Butler and Nikola’s ‘stache.
The lights on the breast of the new-polished court
Gave the luster of prime-time to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should occur,
But a charter bus carrying eight young Lakers,
With a little old driver, so swaggy and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick,
More rapid than Clippers his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name,
“Now, TARIK! now, ZUBAC! now, CLARKSON and INGRAM!
On, LARRY! on LOU WILL! on, RANDLE and RUSSELL!
To the top of the rim! to the top of the arc!
Now shoot a three! shoot a three! shoot a three all!”
As dry jumpers from the wild Celtics fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, Marcus Smart flops,
So up to the rafters the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of buckets, and St. Nick Young too.
And then, with the Knicks, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of the Unicorn’s hoof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his feet,
And reminded everyone the Warriors blew a 3-1 lead;
A bundle of jumpers he had flung without care,
And he shot with more confidence than Stephen or Klay.
His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth made a ton of ruckus,
His right arm had no tattoos, strictly for buckets;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And it brought pride to his mentor, J.R. Smith;
He had a nice stroke and a little bit of defense,
That shook, like the rim on a dunk from Andrew Wiggins.
He was funny and quick, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a contested jumper,
Soon gave me to know he was better than Shumpert;
He spoke not a word, a quiet assassin like Leonard,
And filled all the buckets; then turned with a terror,
And laying his finger on the ice in his veins,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he feigned;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like Chris Paul getting a whistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
HAPPY SWISHMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A SWAGGY NIGHT
Happy holidays from our family to yours, and happy NBA Christmas Day!
