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'Twas the night before Christmas And all through the camp Not a creature was stirring Not maiden nor vamp Our socks were all hung On the clothesline with care In view of the fact That they needed to air The G.I.'s were nestled All snug in their beds While visions of bamboo juice Danced in their heads And those in their bashas And those in their tents All dreamed of the days that They had to pay rent. Then all of a sudden There rose such a clatter I sprang from my bed to find What was the matter I came on a scene that my Heart fair did stop - I cried out in anguish "I've blown my poor top." For what to my wondering Eyes now display |
But a tiny red sled and Eight healthy young babes St. Nick was the driver So jolly and grand I knew in a moment 'Twas that damn "Fighter Brand." But what does it matter Heres music and dames And Santa is calling them, soft By their names: "Now Mitzie, now Trixie, Now Scarlet, now Nana, Now Betty, now Hetty, Now Charlotte, now Lana, Make sure this poor Joe here Will always remember The year forty-three in the Month of December. With that they descended to Wholly surround me A garden of lovelies Blooming around me. Then Nick from his sled drew A gigantic bag And presents that fair made my Knees start to sag |
A case full of whiskey: a Case full of brandy A barrel of beer that will Sure come in handy. A golden-brown turkey; a Porterhouse steak And pies of the texture that Mom used to bake And music was playing Of Strauss and Chopin Fats Waller, Glenn Miller, And Bennie Goodman. It woke the whole camp up And now, pleasure bent They gathered and scattered About my gay tent. I knew right away by The lights in their eyes That here was a bevy of hungry G.I.'s But St. Nick had plenty Enough for us all And girls for the fat, for the thin, short and tall. We ate and we drank and we danced 'til the dawn - |
We knew, in an hour, St. Nick Would be gone; And then, in the hope that They'd all soon return We kissed each girl lightly, Politely, in turn. "'Nite Mitzie, 'nite Trixie, 'Nite Scarlet, 'nite Nana, 'Bye Betty, 'bye Hetty, 'Bye Charlotte, 'bye Lana," But no cry we uttered, nor Any years grieve - They said they'd be back again This New year's Eve O! Doubt not my story - I swear it is true; If you were in India You'd see things, too But now I'm exhausted for Something to write - MERRY CHRISTMAS to all, And to all, A Good Night By Pfc. JACK CONDON |