T’was the night before Christmas, and all through the house,
Not a kindle was stirring, nor even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the fire with care
In hopes that books would soon appear there.
The bibliophiles nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of fairy-tales danced in their heads.
Stories of heroes and villains and such,
And rescuing fair maidens from a dragon’s clutch.
Or vampires, and fairies; witches and wizards;
The Fellowship of the Ring fighting through a blizzard.
Romantic tales of getting the girl;
Or thrillers, and bloodshed for diamonds and pearls.
All types of stories and genres of book,
Read for the love of an exciting hook.
Oh Santa, please, be a dear thing,
A new novel or two or three with you bring.
And in the morning what will you find?
A new box of stationary or machine to bind;
A retro typewriter or flashy new Mac;
Some brand-new notebooks and pens in a pack.
Some writer-themed clothing, a bookmark or two,
Any and all could be useful to you.
But the real present we all hope to see
Is something book-shaped under the tree.