Twas the Night Before Nashville’s Christmas

T’was the night before Christmas and all through the town,
Music City was silent, not even one sound.
Titans fans angry, with frustration to spare,
but hope that Mariota soon would be theirs.
The Preds were all nestled all snug in their beds,
as visions of Lord Stanley danced in their heads.
The Dore’s and the Raiders football seasons were capped,
as they didn’t go bowling but rather a long winter’s nap.
When out on the lawn something was amiss,
as Belmont and Lipscomb echoed swish swish swish.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and looked out into Nash.
The light of the moon on the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of playoffs to objects below.
When, what to my eyes brought me out of bed,
but a new man and the helm, leading the Preds.
With an odd last name, this man i must meet,
I knew it was none other than good ole St. Pete.
More rapid than Blackhawks his players they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
Now Pekka, Now Fisher, Now Neal, Now Filip,
On Weber, On Josi, On Seth and On Calle.
To the top of the crease, to the back of the net!
Now skate, skate away, a goal do not let.
He sprang to his bench, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all skate like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him call out, as he drove out of sight,
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a gold-night!”