Twas the night before Christmas, when at her pine desk
The writer still strove for lines Ogilvy-esque.
O’er keyboard her hands hovered, limp in the air,
While she waited for insight that just wasn’t there.
Her colleagues had long since gone off for a drink:
She thought to herself, well, at least I can think!
She typed a few words then backspaced so glumly;
Her cursor just blinked – accusing her dumbly.
“I need inspiration!” she cried, all alone,
“I can’t find the style, or the message, or tone.”
From a vodka shots promo she poured a small measure
But found the blue liquor delivered no pleasure.
“A nap might just help me to finish,” said she,
“I can get the first draft done and be home before three.”
So, laying her head on her hands, she dozed off.
And missed, in her slumber, a polite little cough.
Standing behind her, his eyes all a-twinkle,
Was a jolly fat man saying, “Now a small drink’ll
Help me to help her get the words for her ad.”
He sipped from her glass and pronounced it, “Not bad!”
He swivelled her screen and sat down by her side
And started to type, with a smile kind and wide.
“Let’s start with a story,” he said with a grin.
“There’s no better way to pull customers in.”
Outside, in the snow, came a shivery jingle.
The odd passerby felt their fingertips tingle.
The reindeer stood silently, ignoring the traffic,
In descending height order: a Yule infographic.
Steady now Adjective, Adverb and Particle!
Steady now Dash and Indefinite Article!
Work as a team and we’ll finish the draft.
You’re all valued parts of the writer’s true craft.
Back at the keyboard, the fat man leans back.
He laces his knuckles with a pop and a crack.
Then back to the typing he goes with a blur.
Does the writer awake from her slumbers? Not her!
With one final flourish he hits Alt_File_Save
Then opens the window and leaves with a wave.
In from the street come sounds of good cheer,
Which waken our writer and cause her to peer
At her screen, where she sees, with a gasp of delight
That the ad has been written, and written just right.
She prints off a copy then packs up her things
And heads for the door as a harness bell rings.
While high in the sky, in his well-laden sleigh,
The jolly old fat man heads up, up, away.
But I heard him exclaim, ’ere he drove out of sight,
“A warm Happy Christmas if it’s copy you write!”
With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore