'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through my flat,
Not a creature was stirring and I was good with that,
The phone by my bed rang out in despair,
It read 'STJOHN' and I knew what news would be there…
Other members were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of disaster ran through my head,
I picked up the phone, and gosh I was right,
"I can't make the duty – just realised tonight!"
Upset that I was up so late in this slum,
I got out of bed to see who else could come,
Through my phone book I went in a flash,
Hoping to pull a favor from the IOU stash.
No matter which number the answer was 'No',
I began to wander to whom else I could go,
When, what to my wandering eyes should appear,
But a miniature Sprinter and eight prepared volunteers,
Complete with a driver, full uniform donned,
I knew in a moment it must be St John.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he sel-called and shouted out each unit's name,
"Now 501! Now 502! 503 through 950!
Grab all your gear and please don't be thrifty!
We've posts to hold! Go out and walk tall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
They'd overcome any obstacle, with spirits held high,
So up to the main post the coursers they flew,
With a sprinter of gear, and our old St John too.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to all members, and to Ops a good-night!"
No comments:
Post a Comment