‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the Metroplex house
Not a creature was stirring, except Lamar Odom and his famous Kardashian spouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that the Cowboys wouldn’t lose yet another game by a hair.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While Mike Jenkins and Jesse Holley had visions of their hair done up in dreads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Watching the Dallas Stars but, honestly, not giving a crap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
Jerry Jones to Jason Garrett: “Hey red-nosed head coach, what’s the ‘effin matter?!”
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Only to see C.J. Wilson and Tyson Chandler, leaving town toting cash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Allowed a glimpse of RGIII, stealing the Heisman Trophy show.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a jolly Rob Ryan, immersed in another keg of cold beer.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it was Jason Kidd, back for one last trick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And Garrett whistled, and shouted, calling a timeout that was lame.
“Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
Now slimy June Jones, with a broken SMU image beyond fixin’.
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Doesn’t seem fair to see DeMarco Murray take that nasty fall.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
Hope the Rangers are one strike better with Joe Nathan, their closer that’s new.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The cussin’ and jivin’ of Ron Washington’s Game 7 speech spoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
J.J. Barea, in broken English, exclaimed he was Minnesota bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
Golden hair atop his noggin’, did Shawn Marion put.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
Promising Delonte West would be better than Robert Pack.
His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
How great that it’s no longer crazy, to compare Dirk with Larry.
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
Suddenly he’s great in December, this Tony Romo.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the chills of a championship, Mark Cuban did us bequeath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
The Mavs’ owner has the last laugh, especially over Perot and Nellie.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
After that World Series collapse will Neftali Feliz ever return to being himself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
The once-promising Cowboys’ season is now one loss from being dead.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
The Angels can have Albert Pujols, ‘cuz I hear he’s a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod toward Dan Bailey’s toes.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
Hope we get to witness Prince Fielder launching an Arlington home-run missile.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to the Miami Heat … suck it!”