Merry Chipmas to all

Originally published 25 December 2001

’Twas the night before Christ­mas, and all through the house,
Not a crea­ture is stir­ring, not even a mouse,
Lit­tle Susie asleep with her dol­lies galore,
And a dozen stuffed ani­mals strewn on the floor.
Lit­tle Tim­my a‑dreaming midst all his toys,
The pop guns and sol­diers so favored by boys.
Mama and Papa are sprawled on their bed,
Snor­ing away with the sleep of the dead;
They have hung all the stock­ings and stuffed them with sweets,
And apples, and oranges, and oth­er nice treats;
The tree is bedecked with cook­ies and stream­ers
Of pop­corn and cran­ber­ries; our house­ful of dream­ers
Have visions of sug­arplums, warm pairs of mit­tens,
Sto­ry books, lol­lipops, maybe some kit­tens.
For this, after all, is what Christ­mas­time means;
If you doubt me just look at those heart-jerk­ing scenes,
On greet­ing cards, cal­en­dars, store win­dows too,
of “up to the house­top the cours­ers they flew…“
Whoa, Dash­er! Whoa, Dancer! Whoa, Comet and Cupid!
Lol­lipops? Can­dy canes? Kids are not stu­pid.
They know what they want from the Jol­ly Old Elf,
And they’ve seen it stacked high on the Toys-R-Us shelf.
Not a rooty-toot-toot or a rum­my-tum-tum,
But a beep, chirp, and click, with a whirr and a hum.
They want i‑Cybie dog, the new robot from Tiger
With six­teen ser­vo­mo­tors (the moves of Mick Jag­ger);
It barks, and it wets, with com­put­ers replete,
You can teach it to sit and chase cars in the street;
So for­get the live kit­tens. But, San­ta, a sack­ful
Of cel­lu­lar phones would be thought­ful and tact­ful,
In lol­lipop col­ors. If visions of any­thing
Dance in their heads, it is hear­ing their phones ring;
No more pass­ing notes in the back of the class,
Today’s kids use cell­phones when mak­ing a pass.
And speak­ing of home­work: When pack­ing the sleigh
Make sure to remem­ber the games chil­dren play
With their Game­Cubes and Xbox­es. Stick­ball and tag
Are as passe as can­dy canes; cap­ture-the-flag
Has sur­ren­dered to laser guns — vir­tu­al, not real;
In their faux Mor­tal Kom­bat, kids go for the kill.
And let’s not for­get our good friend Brit­ney Spears,
The iPod from Apple is a feast for the ears;
“1000 songs in your pock­et,” the kids will go wild
For this microchip mar­vel that is des­tiny’s child.
Brit­ney, and N’Sync, and the Back­street Boys:
Five rous­ing giga­bytes of Christ­mas-morn noise.
As dry leaves that before the wild hur­ri­cane fly,
When they meet with an obsta­cle, mount to the sky,
So pop guns and dolls yield to beeps, clicks and blips
And a child­hood made vir­tu­al by Pen­tium chips.
So throw all those ana­log toys on the fire
And under the tree pile the eToys high­er.
No sug­arplum dreams; the kids will all fid­get till
Cyber Claus comes with a sleigh­ful of digital.

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