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*** Merry Christmas ***

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The MOLLE stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that reloading supplies soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of gun store ads danced in their heads;
And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long "drill and tap",

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Then chambered a round and threw up the sash.

My TLR-1 on the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a deuce and a half sleigh, pulled by eight ten-point reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew I must lead him and adjusted two clicks.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, BROWNING! now, COLT! now, SMITH and WESSON!
On, SPRINGFIELD! on WINCHESTER! on, HARRINGTON and RICHARDSON!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As dry powder that before the musket balls fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, blow it into the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of surplus guns, from WW2.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each reindeer hoof.
As I shouldered my MOSSBERG, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in camo, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with Hoppes No. 9 and soot;
A bundle of rifles he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a gun show vendor just opening his pack.

His eyes twinkled like Trijicon! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were red like my shoulder, after a 12ga mag load strawberry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a crossbow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the cowboy holster rig encircled his waist like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a chubby round ass,
That shook, when he laughed like a tumbler full of brass.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I yelled when I saw him, GET THE F#&@ OUT MY HOUSE;
As he holstered his sidearm with a slow, deliberate nod of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled the gun safes; and the mags as a perk,
And laying his trigger finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like a .300 Whisper.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

"MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL 2A GUN RIGHTS!"


- L.E.S.
 
Love it LES may I share it with fellow gunners on my FB page?
Will give you credit for it of course.
 
Merry Christmas everyone!!!

http://www.foxnews.com/world/2014/12/24/shall-never-forget-it-100-years-since-ww1-christmas-truce/

And a poem...

Ian McMillan
The Game: Christmas Day, 1914
It is so cold.
The lines of this poem are sinking
Into the unforgiving mud. No clean sheet.

Dawn on a perishing day. The weapons freeze
In the hands of a flat back four.
The moon hangs in the air like a ball
Skied by a shivering keeper.
All these boys want to do today
Is shoot, and defend, and attack.

Light on a half-raised wave. The trench-faces
Lifted till you see their breath.
A ball flies in the air like a moon
Kicked through the morning mist.
All these boys want to have today
Is a generous amount of extra time.

No strict formations here, this morning;
No 4-4-2 or 3-5-1
No rules, really. Just a kickabout
With nothing to be won
Except respect. We all showed pictures,
I learned his baby’s name.
Now clear the lines of this poem
And let’s get on with the game.

No white penalty spot, this morning,
The players are all unknown.
You can see them in the graveyards
In teams of forgotten stone;
The nets are made of tangled wire,
No Man’s Land is the pitch,
A flare floodlights the moments
Between the dugouts and the ditch.

A hundred winters ago sky opened
To the sunshine of the sun
Shining on these teams of players
And the sounds of this innocent game.
All these boys want to hear today
Is the final whistle. Let them walk away.

It has been so cold. The lines
Of these poems will be found, written
In the unforgotten mud like a team sheet.
Remember them. Read them again.
Click to expand...
 
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Merry Christmas to each of you and your families. It is my hope that you have a wonderful Christmas and New year.

And thanks to all for not being lazy and disrespectful typing xmas and not being politically correct saying happy holiday. That really gouges me deep.

Merry Christmas !
 
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