the following poem was adapted from this source: http://www.blackdog.net/holiday/christmas/twas.html
‘Twas the night before Christmas and Elvis was in the house. Our heros are stirring,in fear of a mouse. The wetsuits are hung by the fire-pit with care, in hopes they would thaw with the rest of the gear.
The backpacks are nestled all snug in truck beds, while visions of slot-canyons dance in their heads. And Mama in her pile,and me my wool cap, had just settled in,to discuss the days’ raps.
When out on the roadside there arose such a clatter, we sprang from our bags to see what was the matter. Away to the doorway we flew in a flash, tore open the tentflap,which was a bit rash.
The moon on the sand and a dusting of snow gave the lustre of midday at twenty below, when,what to their wondering eyes should appear, but dozens of canyoners,loaded with gear.
With Toyotas and Hondas,some not too quick, one sees in a moment,this is a neat trick. More rapid than ferrets,these newbies they came, gnarly and honed,they are called by strange names.
Now,Dasher!Now,Dancer! Now,Prancer and Vixen! On,Comet!On,Cupid! On,Donner and Blitzen! To the top of the canyon! To the top of the waterfall! Now thrash away!Slogg away! Climb away all!
As dry beans are consumed and wild tales fly, they do carb loading and look to the sky. So up in the morning,to Hog Springs they flew, To shuttle a car and some other stuff too.
And then with just beta,not really much proof, with little complaint,to the canyon they hoof. Get to the canyon,not too turned around, down the chimney they go,some with a bound.
They are dressed all in rubber,from head to foot, and their clothes are all tattered with desert-sand and soot. A shredded rucksac each has slung on his back, they look a like a peddler just opening his pack.
Their eyes-How they twinkle.How could they be merry! Their cheeks are frostbit,their noses like cherries. Their droll little mouths are drawn up like a bow, to keep their chins from hitting the snow. The stump of whistles held tight in their teeth, Their breath it encircles their heads like a wreath. They have broad grins and scrapes on the belly, and all of their muscles feel just like jelly.
If chubby and plump,and not really so svelte, they laugh and stem higher,in spite of themselves. With the wink of an eye,and helmet on head, they know rapping on deadmen,is nothing to dread.
Without many a word,they go straight to the work, and only a few,rappel with a jerk. If one falls victim,to sunburn of the nose, You seldom hear him say”this really blows”
They sweat and struggle,some carry a whistle. They trudge through cacti,but it’s better than thistle. And I heard them exclaim,’ere they climbed out of sight, “Happy Christmas to all,and to all a good night!”