Twas the day before Christmas, when all down the hill
Not a creature was stirring, not a peep, not a trill.
The safety rules were hung at the load area with care,
In hopes that thrill seekers soon would be there.
When up on the mountain there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the office to see what was the matter.
Away to the lobby I ran just to check,
Flung open the door and went out on the deck.
The sun on the steel of a newly built track
Gave the lustre of mid day to carts on the rack.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a blue mountain cart, with no need to steer.
With a little old driver, so lively & quick
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than reindeer he shot down from the ridge,
And he shouted and whistled as he traversed the bridge
“Now to, Shoji, now, Clay! now, Mickey and Presleys!
To, Titanic! To, Hamner! then the Landing and Ripleys!
To the top of the mountain! Then race down the fall.
Now Runaway! Runaway! Runaway all!”
(all apologies to Clement Clarke Moore’s Twas the Night Before Christmas)