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A CSO's Visit from St. Nicholas

By Paul Kerstein

December 21, 2005 — CSO —

By Scott Berinato

With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore

’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the compound
Not a creature was stirring lest the motion detector would sound;
The stockings were fastened to the chimney securely,
And the clocks were synchronized in case Santa were early.
The children were all present and accounted for,
To prevent them from spying, I deadbolted their door;
And mamma in her Kevlar, and I on the lookout,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s stakeout,
When out on the perimeter there arose such a clatter,
I radioed to the guards to check what was the matter.

Away to the tower I flew as it snowed,
Tore open the access panel and punched in the code.
The moon on the steel of the new razor wire
Gave notice this was noplace for a caroling choir,
When, what to my wondering eyes should present,
But three Ford Expeditions and eight plain-clothes agents,
With a thin, serious passenger, whose neck was quite thick—
My behavioral profiling made me think him St. Nick.
With rapid gun fire his protectors they came,
And he nodded and gestured as he called them by name:
“Agent Ryan! And Kelly! Agent Adams and Scranton!
Specialists Coban and Custer! Agents Dimwood and Blanton!
To the front access point, to the guard at the gate!
Now scramble the vehicles, set out the bait!”

As disaster planners who before a scene goes awry,
When they meet with crisis, move to reply,
So up to the gate the Expeditions they sped,
Full of materiel, and St. Nicholas’s cred.
And then, through the wiretaps, I heard at the gate
The exchange of credentials by the agents, all eight.
As I panned the camera and was zooming around,
I saw the gate was a decoy; St. Nick had snuck onto the grounds.

He was dressed all in navy, in a suit pressed and trim,
Such that in a big crowd you’d hardly notice him;
A Samsonite case he had cuffed to his wrist,
And he looked like an ex-cop, you get the gist.
His eyes—how they darted! His brow—how suspicious!
His cheeks they were chiseled, his complexion a fish’s!
His tight little mouth was straight as a dart,
And his shoulders so broad he could have ripped you apart.

The bud of a communications system he had in his ear,
A coiled wire ran down his neck and disappeared;
He had a serious face and a little round fist,
That clenched when he thought he heard something amiss.
He was skinny and sharp, like presidential detail types,
And I yelped when I saw him, and then I thought, “Cripes!”
A wink of his eye when he talked into his cuff,
Soon gave me to know he had brought the right stuff;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his stores,
Distributed munitions, then de-armed the doors.
With agents flanking and a forward team providing cover,
He gave them a nod to disarm the vehicle’s gov’ner;
He sprang to his Ford, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like a heat-seeking missile.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he backed out of the drive,
“Secure Holidays to all, and to all, stay alive!”

We invite your replies, be they blessing or curse; but one little requirement: They must be in verse!

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