Twas the week before Christmas on the Canadian prairie,
As we sat in our living room in a mood most merry.
My artist wife sitting in her blue easy chair,
Knowing I was still hung up on her unicorn hair.
Our daughter was nestled all snug in her bed,
While dreams of Kandinsky danced in her head.
And our son lay asleep on his pillow, his mouth curled in a smirk,
Dreaming about Griffey, Jeter, and Ripken, definitely not artwork.
When down in our basement there arose such a clatter,
I jumped off our couch to see what was the matter.
Away to the stairs I flew like a flash,
Down through the basement landing, a very mad dash.