Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the workplace
Not a creature was stirring, the doors were locked just incase.
The stockings were hung by the radiators with care,
In hopes that Andrew would try them on as a dare.
The workers were drunk, soon to stagger to their beds,
As visions of rude things danced in their heads,
While Mother in her ‘kerchief, and Father in his cap,
Had just settled their brains for a long winter’s nap.
When out in the car park there arose such a clatter,
The cleaner sprang from her Hoover to see what was the matter.
Away to the window she flew like a flash,
Tore open the blinds and slipped back the cash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to her wondering eyes should appear,
But Andrew in stockings, a sight with such fear!
He was a little old plonker, completely drunk on stout
And it was obvious he was the boss of Cybercheckout
With an unsteady tread, up the stairs he came,
And he whistled, and shouted each of his staff by name!
"Now Lisa! Now, Rob! Now, Dawn and Marie!
Oh, Keiron! Oh, Marsha! Oh Sarah and Wendy!”
To the top of the stairs! to the top of the wall!
With a drink in his hand he thought he could climb them all.
He was dressed all in satin, from his head to his knees,
And his clothes were all tarnished with jaffa cakes and cheese.
A bundle of presents he had flung on his back,
’Cos he was late for Secret Santa and lucky not to get the sack.
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 bow,
And the grey in his hair was as white as the snow.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And turned on his computer without even a jerk.
He opened an email and began to type,
A drunken little message that was to go with the hype.
He typed with a need of someone quite festive,
Using phrases that sounded rather suggestive.
He’d send it to staff, he’d send it to all,
Secretly having his own festive ball.
The message he wrote was intended to say
Merry Christmas to all, have a wonderful day.
But what he put never sounded the same,
It’s too rude to mention, it puts him to shame.
He finished his drink and stumbled away,
To the other little office where all our stock lay.
Fishing out the horserug Lisa intended to keep,
He curled up beneath and fell swiftly to sleep.
He missed Christmas lunch, being locked away,
The cleaner stole the keys and laughed all through the day.
The staff and customers had such a festive time,
While poor little Andrew lay shocked up 'til nine.
The moral of the poem, don’t leave things till late,
Or you’ll get stuck in the office and miss the big date.
From everyone at Gridstop, we all shout and cheer
A Merry Christmas to all, and a happy New Year.
Not a creature was stirring, the doors were locked just incase.
The stockings were hung by the radiators with care,
In hopes that Andrew would try them on as a dare.
The workers were drunk, soon to stagger to their beds,
As visions of rude things danced in their heads,
While Mother in her ‘kerchief, and Father in his cap,
Had just settled their brains for a long winter’s nap.
When out in the car park there arose such a clatter,
The cleaner sprang from her Hoover to see what was the matter.
Away to the window she flew like a flash,
Tore open the blinds and slipped back the cash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to her wondering eyes should appear,
But Andrew in stockings, a sight with such fear!
He was a little old plonker, completely drunk on stout
And it was obvious he was the boss of Cybercheckout
With an unsteady tread, up the stairs he came,
And he whistled, and shouted each of his staff by name!
"Now Lisa! Now, Rob! Now, Dawn and Marie!
Oh, Keiron! Oh, Marsha! Oh Sarah and Wendy!”
To the top of the stairs! to the top of the wall!
With a drink in his hand he thought he could climb them all.
He was dressed all in satin, from his head to his knees,
And his clothes were all tarnished with jaffa cakes and cheese.
A bundle of presents he had flung on his back,
’Cos he was late for Secret Santa and lucky not to get the sack.
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 bow,
And the grey in his hair was as white as the snow.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And turned on his computer without even a jerk.
He opened an email and began to type,
A drunken little message that was to go with the hype.
He typed with a need of someone quite festive,
Using phrases that sounded rather suggestive.
He’d send it to staff, he’d send it to all,
Secretly having his own festive ball.
The message he wrote was intended to say
Merry Christmas to all, have a wonderful day.
But what he put never sounded the same,
It’s too rude to mention, it puts him to shame.
He finished his drink and stumbled away,
To the other little office where all our stock lay.
Fishing out the horserug Lisa intended to keep,
He curled up beneath and fell swiftly to sleep.
He missed Christmas lunch, being locked away,
The cleaner stole the keys and laughed all through the day.
The staff and customers had such a festive time,
While poor little Andrew lay shocked up 'til nine.
The moral of the poem, don’t leave things till late,
Or you’ll get stuck in the office and miss the big date.
From everyone at Gridstop, we all shout and cheer
A Merry Christmas to all, and a happy New Year.
D. Ilott
Cybercheckout
Gridstop Ltd
