‘Twas a month before Christmas
And I grabbed my gun,
To hunt the wiley wapiti,
Hoping to get a big one.
I chanced upon a big elk track
Pressed deep in the snow,
The tips of its cloven hoofs
Pointed the way I should go.
The track was a bit strange,
Just different, somehow.
But they were big and deep,
Likely a bull and not a cow.
I finally got a glimpse
Of a grayish-colored hide,
Gray?…elk are usually black on the neck
And reddish tan on the side.
There! The tip of an antler!
Positively a bull!
I raised my gun to shoot,
And felt for the trigger to pull.
Suddenly I was interrupted
In my quest for some meat.
A huge hand grabbed my collar
And lifted me off my feet.
His other hand grabbed my rifle
And set it aside,
Then he put me down and I looked,
And my eyes opened wide.
This huge man was also a hunter,
For he was dressed all in red,
With black shiny boots on his feet
And a floppy red hat on his head.
His beard was all white,
And so was his hair,
His mustache was frosty,
From the cold morning air.
In a booming voice he declared,
“That critter belongs to me.”
“That’s your elk?” I croaked.
In Wyoming, wildlife can’t be property.
“Yes, he’s mine.”
He laughed in a jolly sort of way.
“Kind of strayed a bit
And I spent many a day,
Tracking him down,
And I got here just in time.
Now we got a long way to go,
To be late would be a crime.”
“You see, this guy gets to loaf
Most of the year,
But on December 25th
He’s one of Santa’s reindeer.”
I stood there gawking,
My mouth open wide,
As he put a halter on the weird-looking elk,
And headed north with a long stride.
“Come on, Blitzen,” he urged.
“We’ve got a long way to go,
To get you home to the stable,
And back to the North Pole.”
And I said to myself
As they strode out of sight,
“No more egg nog for you, Jonesy.
No egg nog tonight.”
