'Twas the morning of Boxing Day, when all through the land
The shoppers all lined up, Tim Horton's in hand.
Down side walks and parking lots crusted with ice,
In hopes that the retailers would give their best price.
Their children were there too, dragged from their beds,
With candy hangovers still clouding their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my hoodie,
Had just settled in queue, awaiting the booty.
When through the door of the store there arose such a din,
That the folks in the line pushed forward to get in.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Pressed my nose to the glass and pulled out my cash.
The last of the moon on the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a teenaged Store Manager, with eyes full of fear.
He unlocked the door, so lively and quick,
Then dove away from the mob, which was frantic and thick.
More rapid than eagles, in the people all came,
And they whistled, and shouted for door crashers by name!
"Now iPhones! Now iPads! Now, Cameras and Lenses!
And Juicers! Game Consoles! And TV Credenzas!
To the top of the shelf! To the back of the store!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away with some more!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the store-top the buyers all flew,
Seeking ever more stuff, and the Manager too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,
The stomping and stamping of each shopper's hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the ceiling collapsed and they all hit the ground.
There the Manager lay, amidst ceiling debris,
And his clothes were all tarnished with blood stains and pee.
A pile of smashed goods on his body, unsold,
He looked like a boxer, who had just been knocked cold!
His eyes-how they fluttered as softly he sighed!
His chest barely moving, nose bent to the side!
His droll little mouth with some spittle aflow,
And the pimples on his cheek looking whiter than snow.
The stump of a smart phone lay wedged in his teeth,
And the dust it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook as he convulsed, like a bowlful of jelly!
He was no more than sixteen, an accomplished young elf.
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
When his eyes finally opened and he lifted his head,
I knew then for sure that he wasn't near dead.
He spoke not a word, as he lay there inert,
With shoppers around him, some also quite hurt.
But laying his finger aside of his nose,
He managed a nod, and finally he rose!
He staggered to his feet, to his staff gave a whistle,
And to him they all came like the down of a thistle.
And I heard him exclaim, ‘ere they fled with some wine,
"Good Boxing Day to all! Next year please shop online!"
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