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A little late.

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  • A little late.

    Twas the night before Christmas, when all throughout the theatre
    Not a scroller was moving, not even a forerunner
    The battens were hung from the ceiling with care,
    In hopes that St. Devious soon would be there.

    The amps were nestled all snug in their racks,
    With visions of cables hung neatly in back.
    And as I sat semiconscious, half-awake, half-asleep,
    Before my eyes a vision most crazy started to creep.

    When out from stage left there arose such a clatter,
    I sprang from the console to see what was the matter.
    Away from the faders, I flew like a flash
    Tore open the windows, and looked towards the crash.

    The light from the source of the BTS ghostlight,
    Gave the illusion of moonrays, such was the sight
    When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
    But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

    With a little old driver, so lively and brave,
    I knew in a moment, it must be St. Dave
    More rapid than rotators, his coursers they came,
    And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

    "Now Footer! now, Gafftaper, now, Derek, and Len!
    On, Kelite, on Greenia! On VeeDub and Van.
    To the top of the grid! to the top of wall!
    Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

    As ship on a subject, his wordcount dost fly,
    When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
    So up the cat-walk the coursers they flew,
    With a sleigh full of Gear, and St. Devious too.

    And then, in a twinkling, I heard near the roof
    The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
    As I drew in my head, and was turning around
    Down the ladder St. Devious came with a bound.

    He was dressed all in black, from his head to his foot,
    His clothes were all marked with sawdust and soot.
    A bundle of gear he had flung on his back,
    And he looked like a roadie, just opening his pack.

    His lights- how they shone! his gobos so many!
    His dichroics like roses, some as red as a cherry!
    His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
    And the beard of his chin was as white as fake snow.

    The vague shape of a c-wrench was tight in his palm,
    And he moved through the shadows, with purpose and calm.
    To each batten he visited, and installed a Sensor Rack,
    Each cable upgraded, replacing all from his sack!

    To the soundboard he moved, and cleaned up with care,
    Adding compressors to lines mic'ing a snare.
    Each wireless rig he quietly upgraded
    For the new frequencies the FCC had dictated.

    Each stagehands stockings' he silently sized,
    Adding LED Torches, soft red for their eyes.
    Setwear Gloves for the nice, Lifting Belts for the naughty,
    and some coal for the SM, so he wouldn't be haughty.

    He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave the GO cue,
    And away they all flew like stagehands after Mt. Dew.
    But I heard him exclaim,
    <div class="signaturecontainer">Thanks,<br><br><br><br> Bill Cronheim<br><br>Back stage since 1973<br>For Sale: 1 - KV2 EX12 and 1 - KV2 EX2.2</div>

  • #2

    Thanks,

    Merry Christmas

    Comment


    • #3
      Cute!

      Comment


      • #4

        Well done.


         


        Merry Christmas!

        Write something...

        Comment


        • OneEng
          OneEng commented
          Editing a comment

          Indeed!

          Merry Christmas

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