forwarded mail from Melissa Miller [log in to unmask]
'Twas the Night before Christmas, and, deep in the park,
> The museum was quite hidden; the windows were dark.
> Not a creature was stirring, because they were freezing;
> While deep in the building, curators were sneezing.
> The moon glow on newfallen snow was serene,
> But the budget was shortfallen; you know what that means:
> No heat in the HVAC, no lights on at all,
> No visitors, docents, or guards in the hall.
> (The director departed--he feared Y2K;
> The conservator really preferred things this way.)
>
> Old mist nets were hung by the fume hood to snare
> Any soft funding that tiptoed past there.
> The curators were nestled together for heat
> So I snapped on their muzzles and shackled their feet.
> And I, with a nightcap of straight acetone,
> Had just settled down for a quick whine and moan
> When, deep in collections, a tiny light flickered,
> And I sprang up to my feet at the sound of a snicker.
> When, what to my wondering eye should appear
> But the computer I thought I'd surplused last year
> With a little old user, so jolly and quick
> I knew it was Santa by his scroll and his click,
> Though he was dressed like a day trader, three-piece and tie,
> His clothes were all rumpled (not a true GQ guy).
>
> A bundle of loot he had flung on his back,
> Just like a con man sneaking out back.
> His eyes --how they squinted! Himself, what a fogey!!
> His cheeks were like cheeks, and his nose like a stogie.
> A Cubano cigar stub he clenched in his mouth,
> And the smoke from it filled the museum north to south.
> The tic near his eye and the twist of his head,
> Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
> He spoke not to me but to his cellular phone
> Suddenly proclaiming, "The deal is now on!"
> I flew to my laptop and logged on with dismay:
> I found the collection all up on eBay.
>
> Every small thing we had cared for so long
> Was collectible and now could be had for a song.
> Our computers and phones were sold as antiques;
> The birds were all Folk Art, from feathers to beaks.
> Catalogs, manuscripts? St. Nick used his wiles
> To sell people these, straight out of our files.
> The jars were all Barware, and sold on the hoof;
> As the fluid inside them was 140 proof.
> Fraternal groups bought up the elk, lions, and moose;
> Martha Stewart bought herbarium sheets for some use
> Fossils and gemstones, old cores and bits--
> All went out packaged as home patio kits.
>
> And the liveliest bidder all through the house
> Was St. Nick himself stirring around with his mouse.
> More rapid than Eagle Scouts, auctioneers came,
> And he whistled and shouted and called them by name.
> "Now Absolute! Bad Box! Now Borrow and Lent!
> On Warranty! Backup! Git up, Scratch and Dent!
> To the top of the bid, the reserve cannot fall!
> All for one money! Dash away, all!"
>
> As tumbleweeds in front of the tornado fly,
> And, sucked up with trailer homes, mount to the sky,
> To the bidders our collections became a cash cow
> So I threw in the curators--who needed them now?
> When all was done we were down to the walls
> Santa dondered and blitzened and then decked it all.
> And, laying a finger inside of his nose,
> While sneering at me, up the fume hood Nick rose;
> But I heard him exclaim as he rose out of sight,
> "Don't take it so hard what happened tonight.
> True, you lost your collections, but now you have lucre,
> And all-virtual museums are the wave of the future."
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