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[bloodnor]

It twas the night before mech-mas, When all through the hanger Not a creature was stirring, Not even a Flea, The stockings were hung by the mechbay with care, In hopes that St Nondi Steiner soon would be there.
The Pilots were nestled all snug in their bunks, While visions of sugar-plumbs danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my helmet, Had just turned off our scanner for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bunk to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the chest plate of a new-fallen Mech
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature raven’s cockpit appear, and eight tinny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nondi.
More rapid than jenners his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now daishi! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vicktor!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of ammo, and St Nondi too.

And then, in a twinkling of PPC flash, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nondi came with a crash.

He was dressed all in camo that looked like fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Clan-Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a Longbow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as Illyrian snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old fatlas,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And re-filled his ammo, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, then jumped jetted up the chimney he rose
He sprang to his cockpit, to his team gave command,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he flew out of range,
"Happy Mech-Mas to all, and to all a good fight!"

Twas the Night before Mech-Mas Poem

Mechy Christmas to all
Bloodnor

[cmopatrick]

(i do hope you will forgive this, but your idea was a wee bit of an inspiration... if you rather i delete it, please feel free to let me know and i will.)


Twas the night before 'Mechsmas
and all through the bay
not a person was stirring
even old tech O'Day.
Work orders were stacked
by the gantry's back stair
in hope that new parts
would soon bring repair.

Our pilots 'neath blankets
snored loud on their cots
and dreamed they were fighting
in huge stompy 'bots.
I was too tired
to move from my 'Mech
and hoped that a snooze
wouldn't crick up my neck.

But out on the planet
the bad guys did splatter
and blow up our friends
with pew-pew and tat-tatter.
I turned on my sensors
and vision of night
fired up my XL
strode out to the fight.

Fires in the distance
made night look as day
and the glow all around me
told carnage held sway.
But now a 'Mech wonder
before me appears,
a Santa-clad Atlas
and seven 'Mech peers.

The scout is a Raven
so lanky and quick,
with ECM humming,
so missiles won't stick.
The van is a Hunchie,
it's gun riding high,
he points it right at me,
them strides quickly by.

Centurion! Cataphract!
Awesome! Commando!
They run to positions,
know right where to go.
Then a 'Pult jets up high
Over rooftop and wall,
the Atlas will guide them
he is making the call.

Caught in a tornado
each target they find
is ripped by their fury
leaving just scrap behind.
They pound each together
they shoot one the same,
baddies are dug out
like it is a game.

None stand before them
and running won't matter
they find those in hiding
and PUGs quickly scatter.
They lead with the gauss,
add a missile barrage,
large lasers lash out and
leave naught but salvage.

I waited and watched,
my weapons weren't needed;
the grand Atlas' lances
they never retreated.
And when they returned
and stood by me here.
Big Atlas Santa and
his Lances of Fear.

No damage was on them,
and they were so clean
it was hard to imagine
with all I had seen.
But no doubt about it
I knew it was true
they'd stomped on the baddies
its just what teams do.

As they ran to their dropship,
new contracts to find
I knew deep inside
they had settled my mind.
Then I heard on the comms
in the cold of the night,
“Merry Mechsmas to all
and to all a good fight!”

(edit: quick spelling change and reordered a couple words.)

Edited by cmopatrick, 25 December 2012 - 09:06 AM.

[bloodnor]

no dude that pretty epic

[cmopatrick]

thanks, sir, yours was the inspiration. we each a different flavor reach...