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‘Twas the night before Axe-mas, and all through the gig,
My neck was too skinny, my frets were too big.
Playing was difficult, chords were a chore,
But I finished the set, though my fingers were sore.
Then put my guitar back all snug in its case,
Packed up my gear and drove back to my place.
And as visions of Warmoth necks danced in my head,
I let myself drift off to sleep in my bed,
When down in the den there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
I raced to my mancave, prepared for a fight.
I flipped on the switch, and there in the light,
Amidst all my gear was a thief or mugger.
Like lightning I picked up my Louisville Slugger.
As I drew back the bat, preparing to pound,
The portly intruder looked up at the sound,
And in less than a heartbeat - a second, I reckon,
I recognized Santa, and put down my weapon.
A wink of his eye and a tug of his ear,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to fear.
He held my guitar on his little round belly,
That guitar I’d been playing, my Mexican Tele®.
And he ripped off a blues lick, that jolly old elf,
“Don’t worry” he said, “I’m a player myself;”
Then he put down the axe, reached into his pack,
And pulled out a slip with my name on the back.
He said with a smile “You’ll like this, I bet.
It’s from someone who loves you, and knew what to get.”
I looked at the paper, and counted my luck:
A cool Warmoth voucher for two hundred bucks.
My heart was so grateful, I had not the words;
For now I could get the new neck I preferred.
Then he gave me a fist-bump, threw on his pack,
And giving a nod, he left out the back.
He fired up his pickup, and cranked up the tunes,
And upwards he flew, 'cross the face of the moon.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Merry Axe-mas to all, and to all a good night!”
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