'Twas the night before Christmas, and out on the ramp,
Not an airplane was rocking, not even the Champ.
The aircraft were secured with tiedowns and care,
In hopes that come morning, they all would be there.
The fuel trucks were nestled, all snug in their spots,
With gusting from forty at 39 knots.
I slumped in the tower, now finally caught up,
And settled down comfortably, hot tea in my cup.
When the radio lit up with noise and with chatter,
I turned up the volume to see what was the matter.
A voice clearly heard over static and snow,
Called for clearance to land at this airport below.
He barked his transmission so lively and quick,
I'd have sworn that the call sign he used was "St. Nick".
I ran to the panel to turn up the lights,
The better to welcome this magical flight.
He called his position, there was no denial,
"St. Nicholas One, inbound on long final."
And what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a Czech-built sleigh, with eight Rotax Reindeer!
With a perfect approach, down the glideslope he came,
As he passed the fixes, he called them by name:
"Now Ringo! Now Tolga! Now Trini and Bacun!
On Comet? On Cupid?" What pills was he takin'?
We controllers were sittin', and scratchin' our heads,
We phoned the fuel office, and said it with dread,
The message we left was both urgent and dour:
"When Santa pulls in, have him please call the tower."
He landed like silk, with the sled runners sparking,
Then I heard "Left at Charlie," and "Taxi to parking."
He slowed to a taxi, turned off three-zero
And stopped on the ramp with a "Ho, ho, ho, ho-ho..."
He stepped out of the sleigh, but before he could talk,
The ramp rat met him with his best set of chocks.
His red helmet and goggles were covered with frost
And his beard was quite sooty from Reindeer exhaust.
His breath smelled like peppermint, gone slightly stale,
And he puffed on a pipe, but he didn't inhale.
His cheeks were all rosy and jiggled like jelly,
His boots were as black as a cropduster's belly.
He was chubby and plump, in his suit of bright red,
And asked the rat "top off, with hundred low-lead."
He went dashing inside from the snow-covered pump,
He must have been anxious to drain out his sump.
The rat spoke not a word, and went straight to his work,
He topped off the tanks, then spilled--what a jerk!
Nick emerged from the restroom, and sighed with relief,
Then picked up the phone for a Flight Service brief.
He told the rat, as he scratched in his log,
His reindeer can land in an eighth-mile fog.
He completed his preflight, from the front to the rear,
Then put on his headset, and shouted out, "Clear!"
And laying a finger on his push-to-talk,
He called up the tower for clearance and squawk.
"Charlie to three-zero, squawk one two six seven,
Turn to course heading at pilot's discretion"
He sped down the runway, the best of the best,
"Traffic's a Grumman twin, inbound from the west."
Then I heard him proclaim, as he climbed into the night,
"Merry Christmas to all, have the Cougar in sight!"
Not an airplane was rocking, not even the Champ.
The aircraft were secured with tiedowns and care,
In hopes that come morning, they all would be there.
The fuel trucks were nestled, all snug in their spots,
With gusting from forty at 39 knots.
I slumped in the tower, now finally caught up,
And settled down comfortably, hot tea in my cup.
When the radio lit up with noise and with chatter,
I turned up the volume to see what was the matter.
A voice clearly heard over static and snow,
Called for clearance to land at this airport below.
He barked his transmission so lively and quick,
I'd have sworn that the call sign he used was "St. Nick".
I ran to the panel to turn up the lights,
The better to welcome this magical flight.
He called his position, there was no denial,
"St. Nicholas One, inbound on long final."
And what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a Czech-built sleigh, with eight Rotax Reindeer!
With a perfect approach, down the glideslope he came,
As he passed the fixes, he called them by name:
"Now Ringo! Now Tolga! Now Trini and Bacun!
On Comet? On Cupid?" What pills was he takin'?
We controllers were sittin', and scratchin' our heads,
We phoned the fuel office, and said it with dread,
The message we left was both urgent and dour:
"When Santa pulls in, have him please call the tower."
He landed like silk, with the sled runners sparking,
Then I heard "Left at Charlie," and "Taxi to parking."
He slowed to a taxi, turned off three-zero
And stopped on the ramp with a "Ho, ho, ho, ho-ho..."
He stepped out of the sleigh, but before he could talk,
The ramp rat met him with his best set of chocks.
His red helmet and goggles were covered with frost
And his beard was quite sooty from Reindeer exhaust.
His breath smelled like peppermint, gone slightly stale,
And he puffed on a pipe, but he didn't inhale.
His cheeks were all rosy and jiggled like jelly,
His boots were as black as a cropduster's belly.
He was chubby and plump, in his suit of bright red,
And asked the rat "top off, with hundred low-lead."
He went dashing inside from the snow-covered pump,
He must have been anxious to drain out his sump.
The rat spoke not a word, and went straight to his work,
He topped off the tanks, then spilled--what a jerk!
Nick emerged from the restroom, and sighed with relief,
Then picked up the phone for a Flight Service brief.
He told the rat, as he scratched in his log,
His reindeer can land in an eighth-mile fog.
He completed his preflight, from the front to the rear,
Then put on his headset, and shouted out, "Clear!"
And laying a finger on his push-to-talk,
He called up the tower for clearance and squawk.
"Charlie to three-zero, squawk one two six seven,
Turn to course heading at pilot's discretion"
He sped down the runway, the best of the best,
"Traffic's a Grumman twin, inbound from the west."
Then I heard him proclaim, as he climbed into the night,
"Merry Christmas to all, have the Cougar in sight!"
