'Twas the night before Christmas through our Garden State.
All the creatures were steaming, the buses were late.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care
but come midnight, Route 18, I still would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds
but traffic is all I can see lined up ahead.

My wife's in her kerchief, I'm in Yankee cap
but she's home and I'm stuck in this traffic trap.

When up in the sky, there flew by such a vision
distracting me from getting home, 'twas my mission.

Through wipers on windshield, the snow it did splash.
I had to pull over for fear I might crash.

The moon on the breast of the woman I love
such thoughts could not deter me from what's above.

I should not be driving. Did I have too much beer?
Why else would I see a flying sleigh and reindeer?

And the little old driver, so lively and quick
just barely flew over that warehouse of brick.

More rapid than buses, his coursers, they came.
The cars in front of me could not do the same.

"Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen!"

Came out did the drivers. With cheers they let loose.
Around here, St. Nick's loved more even than Bruce.

So the drivers, they hurried with much zest and zing.
They had to get home to see what Nick would bring.

A Nintendo Game Boy? New frisbee of Wham-O's?
The first season DVD of "The Sopranos"?

At last came my exit and the final jughandle.
I passed by nativity scenes and menorah candles.

As I unlocked the deadbolt and the door swung around
down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in sharkskin from his head to his foot
and his clothes were all tarnished by ashes and soot.

He smelled like a strange mix of clam sauce and a sewer.
And I said to old St. Nick, "I see you've been in Newark!"

His eyes were exhausted. His cheeks, they were achy.
"I never saw," he said, "a city so flaky!

Not L.A., not Vegas, Detroit or Miami!
And shouldn't you be asleep, wearing your jammies?"

Ah, yes, my dear Mrs., she of lovely bones
and face looking much like Catherine Zeta-Jones.

No more must I face all that great dating pressure
and most Jersey girls, well, they tawk like Fran Drescher.

"Now, Santa," I said, stockings dangling from shelf
"I would not pretend to be too nice myself.

But my children are so good, they've nothing to dread
and you know my wife's nice, she's just naughty in bed!"

He nodded his head, and he laughed through the pause.
"You should know what a freaky girl's my Mrs. Claus!

Now, please let me work, step away from the cookie.
And go see your wife, she's ready for nookie."

So away from the hearthstone, I went back to bed
and the wife did exactly as Santa Claus said.

The glow of the moon on her face, it was beaming
but strange, 'twas, "Ho, ho, ho!" that she was screaming.

If that was her fantasy, hey, that's all right.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night.