With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore.
’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the town
not a Hot Stove was burning, since the lockout came down.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
in hopes a new CBA’d come from somewhere.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
while dreams of free agents danced in their heads.
And ma in her Sox kerchief, and I my Sox cap
had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the lawn there came a weird clatter,
like Tony La Russa, after a hit batter.