T’was the night before Christmas
When all throughout Truth,
Not a creature was working. Not even Ruth.
But rather we were chillin’ with style instead;
The creatives all nestled, sipping beers from Three Heads,
Decorating cookies—of spiced gingerbread.
John in his bowler, and Bob in reindeer-print Chaps,
Had settled their tab from a slew of whiskied night caps,
When out on Russell Street there arose such a clatter,
Alyssa sprang from her desk to see what was the matter.
Away to the conference room Justyn bounced looking jolly,
And Carolyn tore after him with Pete, Josh, Laura, and Molly.
The moon on the sidewalk and lake-effect snow
Were haloed in beauty by our Hazer machine’s fog.
When what to our wandering eyes did appear,
But a silver Jeep Wrangler led by nine crazy dogs
With a lively, bald driver in black frames and red shorts.
By now we were all at the windows, of course.
Led by milk bones on fishing poles, the dog team they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Remy! Now, Harvey! Now, Sandy, now Presley,
now Lily! On, Finlay! On, Mojo, Bella, and Dyson!
To the peak of the loft! And on through the Factory halls!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”
Gotta be honest, it was an emotional scene,
The shop lit up, twinkling like a pinball machine;
And down from the rooftops, the dog pack, they flew
With a Jeep full of deliverables, and a frozen pizza or two—
Ian and Carlie heard bells tinkling from the driveway outside,
Then prancing and drumming from each little paw.
Tracey rose from the couch peering out and about,
Through the garage door burst the Jeep
Glass shattering around.
And who but emerged, t’was Jeremy in green felt,
His clothes were all spattered with printer ink and gelt.
A scream came from Reger all startled and shocked,
Robin offered stain remover for his soiled jacket and frock.
Our eyes—we couldn’t believe them!
Nine dogs bouding aimlessly about,
One vaulting desks with a pound of Java’s coffee in her snout.
Their master festooned freely bundles of fresh mistletoe.
“We underestimated,” said Alex, “your personal life, bro.”
A stump of beef jerky he held tight in his teeth,
And cigar smoke encircled his head like a wreath.
Mike reached out a hand, invited him in with a grin.
Karrie offered her clay mug, cider steaming within.
Emma shared her brandy, and Whitman his brew,
Blaring holiday covers by Iggy Pop and Mötley Crüe;
The fellow spoke not a word, all smitten with mirth,
And went filling client inboxes with extraordinary work.
Once we swept up the glass and repaired the garage door,
We sang carols, made marry, and shook up the dance floor.
After a night of great fun, the sun started to rise,
and we all made for the door to give hugs and goodbyes.
Jeremy sprang to his Jeep, chocolates flung by the fistful,
And away he flew fast with one sharp doggy whistle.
Joe heard him exclaim, as he drove up out of sight,
“Happy holidays from Truth! Yo, I just dropped the mic!”