This season means different things to different people. For me, a Canadian transplant living in New York, I mostly just miss Boxing Day. Today is Christmas, which I don’t celebrate, though I do celebrate its arrival and the opportunity to listen to my favorite holiday poem, “Twas the Night Before Christmas, Philly Style,” by Henry Livingston Jr. and Roy Ziegler.
For those unfamiliar, Philly Boy Roy is a caller to The Best Show on WFMU out of New Jersey. Some of Philly Boy Roy’s other calls appear on the Scharpling & Wurster CDs, and some on The Best Show Gems.
Here is the link to the Mp3, follow along with the lyrics below. I’d like to thank my friend Esoteric at Sportsangle.com for hosting the post on Christmas Eve proper, while we got our server set up. Please check out his site, though be warned: he is a Mets fan.
“Twas the night before Christmas, Philly Style”
By Henry Livingston Jr. and Roy Ziegler
Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro’ Veterans Stadium,
Not a creature was stirring, not even the Philly Phanatic.
‘Nem stockings was hung by the dugout with care,
In hopes that St. Rizzo would soon be there.
‘Nem Eagles was nestled all snug in their bed,
While visions of cheesesteaks danced in their heads.
Patti LaBelle in her kerchief, and I in my Phillies cap
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the playing field, there arose such a clatter,
I sprang out from the dugout to see what was the matter.
Away from the bed, I flew like a flash,
Tore up the stairs, and grabbed me a bat.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of hoagie buns to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a gigantic sled, and eight legends, so dear.
With a tough old driver, so mean, and so fair,
i knew in a moment St. Rizzo would be there.
More rapid than ‘nem ’76ers, those heroes they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Schmitty! now, Iverson! now Parent and Detmer!
On Hall! on Oates! on Hooters and Rundgren!
To the heart of South Street! to Jim’s Steaks you all!
Now dash away! Dash away! Like Steve Carlton’s fastball!”
Like the basketballs Dr. J would let fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So down to South Street, ‘nem legends they flew,
With a sleigh full of toys, and St. Rizzo, too.
And then in a twinkling, I heard on the street,
The sound of my heroes landing on their feet.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the chimney at Jim’s Steaks, St. Rizzo came with a bound.
He was dressed all in silver and green from his head to his cleats,
And he demanded Jim make him a cheesesteak to eat.
A bundle of footballs and hockey sticks he flung on his back,
And he looked like a cop at the Spectrum, beating a crowd back.
His eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like Phillies helmets, his nose like a can of Frank’s Cherry.
His filthy little mouth was drawn up in a bow,
And his three chins were as white as the snow.
The end of a cigar he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face, and a fat round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like TastyKakes filled with jelly!
He was chubby and plump, a right tough old guy,
I laughed at him until he said I was going to die!
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head,
Soon made me know that I had plenty to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all ‘nem stockings, and called me a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
Accepting my bribe, up the chimney he rose!
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team he gave a thump,
And away they flew, in the direction of Manayunk.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove them without mercy,
“Happy Christmas to all, and let’s skip New Jersey!”