'Twas the night before MOGmas

A little re-post from my MOG page:
‘Twas The Night Before MOGmas
With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore
By Jimmy Bear, the Old Hippie

‘Twas the night before MOGmas, when all through the house
Not a MOGger was stirring, no click of a mouse;
The pedals were hung by the pedalboard with care,
In hopes that St. Pick soon would be there;
The MOGgers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While versions of Layla it boomed in their heads;
And my Bear in her ‘kerchief, and I in axe strap,
Had just hunkered down for a long record gap,
When out on the driveway there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the stage to see what was the matter.
Away to the mic’phone I ran without catch,
Popped on the pre-amp and plug’d in the patch.
The amp lights on the threads of the stage rug throw
Gave the lustre of lasers to objects below,
When, what to wondering ears should not belittle,
A little bitty git-player, and eight tiny fiddle,
With the little old shredder, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Pick.
More rapid than eagles his pick-sweeps they came,
And he pinch-squealed, and up-picked, and called them by name;
“Now, Les Paul! now, Fly-V! now, Tele and Strat!
On, Mustang! on SG! on, Jackson and Fly!
To the top of the neck! pin ears to the wall!
Now thrash away! slash away! thrash away all!”
As tube screams that before the wild pick-flurry fly,
When they meet with an key-change, slip bridge to the sky,
So up to the house-lights the barre chordes they flew,
With the bus full of merch, and St. Pick and Les too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the lawn
The shifting and flanging of each amp not pawned.
As I managed the sliders, and was tuning the sound,
Down the aisle St. Pick came with a bound.
He was dressed all in spandex, his boots they did thud,
And his wrists were adorned with leather and stud;
A bundle of axes he had flung on his back,
And he looked like Keith Richards just smoking a pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his callouses cherry!
His moves were all blinding, he chopped like Chuck Berry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like Malmsteen,
And the leather of his straps were polished to sheen;
The stump of a tube he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke of it circled his head like a wreath;
He had broad hands and a set of sixed-abs,
That rippled, when he played like a wall full of cabs.
He was skinny and pumped, a right jolly old hippie,
And I hollered when I saw him, in spite of my trippie;
A plink of his finger and a twist of his pick,
Soon gave me to know I had taped sound most slick;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled up the stage; with sounds so berzerk,
And laying a palm-mute aside of his strings,
And giving a nod, his equipment he flings;
He sprang to his bus, to his roadies gave a whistle,
And away they all flew with the smoke of a missile.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy MOGmas to all, and to all a good-night.”