Twas The Night Before Rugby Christmas…

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Twas the night before Rugby Christmas, when all through the land,
All the pitches were quiet, not a soul in the stands.
Rugby socks were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes the red-dressed Prop, would soon be there.

The ruggers were snuggled, rugby balls held tight,
Dreaming of drop-goals, as they slept through the night.
Lady ruggers in stockings, Males in their IRB caps,
Had just finished training, And at last had a nap.

Then up on the roof, was a heavy pitter-patter,
Was it an earthquake, would we be in tatters?
I burst to the window, like a centre would crash,
Broke it in pieces, gave myself a good gash!

The moon on the pitch which was now newly-mowed,
Lit the field like Aviva makes all of Landsdowne glow.
With my cut’s blood in my eyes, all could do was hear,
The sound of Santa’s sleigh – or was it all the beer?

With a wipe of my sleeve and butterfly stitch,
My vision restored, that prop was St. Nick!
As rapid as USA Eagles, his players got in the game,
and he whistled and shouted and called them by name:

“Now Matfield! Now Clever!
Now, Quade and Stephen Donald!
On, Dusautoir! On, Woodcock!
On, Phillips and O’Connell!
The length of the pitch!
And protect that ball!
Now dash away! Dash away!
Dash away all!”

As Dan Carter kicks twirl round on the fly,
when they meet with a crossbar, and jump to the sky
so up to Eden Park’s roof the ruggers they flew,
with the sleigh full of stuff, and St. Nicholas too.

In a Alain Rolland second, I heard thru the ceiling,
Cleats prancing and clacking with a Christmasy feeling.
My head still bleeding, I turned round to see,
A soot covered Santa bounding at me.

His kit was all red, but didn’t alarm,
I could tell straight away that he meant no harm.
New rugby gear was stuffed in his bag,
And the pep in his step ruled out jet-lag.

His eyes–how they twinkled! Cardiff Blue I think!
It was then I though I should swear off the drink!
As he sidestepped by, with hair like the snow,
I was impressed by his moves, like a young Adam Jones.

He was front-row material, built low to the ground,
and I laughed when I saw him move nimbly around.
He smiled but stayed silent and set to the task,
Of filling the socks hanging with stuff from his stash.

Then laying his finger aside of his nose,
Like a line-out leaper, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like Scotland’s Thistles.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,

Happy Rugby Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

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About Johnathan Wicklow Barberie 118 Articles
JWB is the contrived Kiwi sports personality who can't go ANYWHERE without being asked for an autograph. He always obliges. Find him on Twitter at: @JWB_RWU