[Nfb-krafters-korner] OT: Twas the Night Before Christmas

[qubit]

good grief...lol
I think I'll send this one to a few people I know...
--le

----- Original Message ----- 
From: "NCBootman" <ncbootman at gmail.com>
To: "List for blind crafters and artists" <nfb-krafters-korner at nfbnet.org>
Sent: Friday, December 10, 2010 4:51 PM
Subject: [Nfb-krafters-korner] OT: Twas the Night Before Christmas


'Twas the night before Christmas at Rock-Away Rest, And all of us seniors 
were looking our best. Our glasses, how sparkly, our wrinkles, how merry; 
Our punch bowl held prune juice plus three drops of sherry. A bedsock was 
taped to each walker, in hope That Santa would bring us soft candy and soap. 
We surely were lucky to be there with friends, Secure in this residence and 
in our Depends. Our grandkids had sent us some Christmasy crafts, Like 
angels in snowsuits and penguins on rafts. The dental assistant had borrowed 
our teeth, And from them she'd crafted a holiday wreath. The bed pans, so 
shiny, all stood in a row, Reflecting our candle's magnificent glow. Our 
supper so festive -- the joy wouldn't stop -- Was creamy warm oatmeal with 
sprinkles on top. Our salad was Jell-O, so jiggly and great, Then puree of 
fruitcake was spooned on each plate. The social director then had us play 
games, Like "Where Are You Living?" And "What Are Your Names?" Old 
Grandfather Looper was feeling his oats, Proclaiming that reindeer were 
nothing but goats. Our resident wand'rer was tied to her chair, In hopes 
that at bedtime she still would be there. Security lights on the new fallen 
snow Made outdoors seem noon to the old folks below. Then out on the porch 
there arose quite a clatter (But we are so deaf that it just didn't matter). 
A strange little fellow flew in through the door, Then tripped on the sill 
and fell flat on the floor. 'Twas just our director, all togged out in red. 
He jiggled and chuckled and patted each head. We knew from the way that he 
strutted and jived Our social- security checks had arrived. We sang -- how 
we sang -- in our monotone croak, Till the clock tinkled out its soft 
eight-p.m. stroke. And soon we were snuggling deep in our beds. While nurses 
distributed nocturnal meds. And so ends our Christmas at Rock-Away Rest.




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