Twas the night before Christmas, cold, dark and foreboding,
as I sat at the workbench, quite busy reloading.

The empties from autumn were polished so clear
for primers and powder, and bullets from Speer

and Sierra boat-tails, and Nosler's Partitions
(My bench ain't no place for brand name omissions!)

All sat in their boxes, right next to the press
with dies from Midway, and RCBS

When all of a sudden there came such a jolt,
I grabbed for my Mossberg, and whipped out my Colt.

As I spilled Hodgdon's powder all over the shelf
I scrambled for cover, just to protect myself.

From up on the rooftop, came hoof beats and snorting
Like the noise out of L'il Rock, from Clinton's cavorting!

I eased off the safety, to press-check my auto,
with 230-hardball, I'd knock'em all blotto.

Were these rogue federal agents, sent by Schumer and Reno?
Or a staggering Ted Kennedy, in bad need of vino?

My question was answered with a knock, and some sneezing,
"It's Santa, you moron, lemme in there, I'm freezing!"

I flipped off the dead-bolt and threw the door open wide,
to find St. Nick a'shivering, Rudolph by his side.

He eyeballed my Thompson, with a nod of approval
"You're all set," he said, "for dirtball removal."

"But this is no raid, we're not here to harm you
Or persecute, prosecute, or even disarm you."

"Instead," said dear Santa, "I need to borrow
your .357, 'till day after tomorrow."

"It's okay," he assured me, with a hint of frustration.
"I'm enrolled in the National Rifle Association."

He showed me his card, 'twas a Life Member rating
"I've had this since me and the missus were dating!"

"And you see, ol' buddy, I've gotten real nervous
since Feinstein was elected, with a promise to serve us."

"So henceforth as I'm out there, my presents a'stackin'
I want to assure you, I'm legally packin'."

"And my gift for you this year, should give you a hoot."
"I've told the Supreme Court to give Brady the boot!"

"Now, Rudy and I must be on our way."
He said, as he climbed back on the seat of his sleigh.

With the reins in his hand, and my Smith in his pocket
He jingled the sleigh bells and was off like a rocket.

With a pair of speed loaders, and ammo to spare
I knew he'd be safe, he was loaded for bear.

As he faded from view, I could still hear him calling:
"From D.C., where 'P.C.' is already falling,
to bad guys in L.A., Detroit and Atlanta:
I'm ready and I carry, so don't be messin' with Santa!"

Yeah, but, did he bring primers to share?

I like it!

God bless us, every one!

That one's dated, but is wearing well so far...

quote:

Originally posted by slabsides45:
That one's dated, but is wearing well so far...

Okay, how about this one?

Twas the night before Christmas, and night shift was a dud,
not a shooter was stirring, not even a Fudd.
The holsters were all hung by the gun safe with care,
in hopes that Saint Glockolas would soon be there.

Team ARIZONA Gunowner were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of new P-Mags danced in their heads.
And with my Colt Defender, ready to bust a cap,
I had just settled down for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew with haste a’plenty,
while grabbing my Colt SP Sixty Nine Twenty.

My Surefire on the breast of the new fallen snow,
gave the luster of mid-day to targets below.
When what to my Aimpoint Comp ML3 should appear,
but a heavily armed sleigh, with eight packin’ reindeer.

With a little old shooter, armed with Hydra Shok,
and I knew in an instant, it must be Saint Glock!

More rapid than plus P loads, his gunslingers they came,
and he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name.
“Now Mauser, now AK, now Moisin Nagant!
On AR, on M1, and F-A-L too!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now blast away, blast away, blast away all!”

As the dry leaves that before heavy muzzle blast fly,
when they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky,
so up to the garage top the gunslingers they flew,
with a sleigh full of ammo, and Saint Glockolas too!

And then, with the tinkling of ejected brass,
I heard the whole crew bearing down on my ass.
As I cradled my AR, finger curled on the trigger,
down the chimney came Glockolas, like a parachute rigger.

He was dressed all in multicam, from his head to his foot,
and his clothes were all tarnished with gunpowder and soot.
A sack of full auto guns he had slung on his back,
and he looked like a Class 3 dealer, unlocking his rack.

His eyes, how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
And his Tommy Gun barrel glowed hot, like a cherry.
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
and the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The blade of a K-Bar he clenched tight in his teeth,
and the smoke from his Thompson circled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a round little belly,
that shook when he laughed, like ballistic jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old shooter,
and I laughed when I saw him, this man was no looter.
A piss he did take, running into the John,
and I smiled, relaxed, and flipped my safety back “ON.”

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his task,
he filled all my holsters, and I didn’t even ask.
He loaded all my mags, even left me some spares,
and then he was gone, into space did I stare.

He sprang to his sleigh, parked on top my garage,
and they thundered off, like an artillery barrage.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove off in the night,
“Happy shooting to all, and a good optic sight!”