Twas the night before Christmas and all through the night
Not a possum was stirring, not a flying fox in sight;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Mudcatter soon would be there;

The catters were nestled all snug in their beds,
While memories of lamingtons danced in their heads;
And mee-ma in her kaftan, and I with my booze,
Had just settled down for a long summer's snooze,