[Nhcoll-l] Twas the night

[John E Simmons]

For those of you interested, the 2016 version of our annual holiday poem is
below. This is number 27 in the series, which started in 1989. If you would
like a PDF of all 27 of these things, please email me OFF LIST at
simmons.johne at gmail.com and I will send it along.

*St. Entropy Takes on Interior Desecration*



‘Twas that Night afore Christmas. (Yeah, heard it. Move on.)

The museum folk had partied; now most were long gone.

The curators fêted too much; all the aisles

Were clogged with them, sleeping it off, with big smiles.

The trophy mounts hung side by side on the wall,

Each topped with a nightcap. (Now who is that tall?)

A fruitcake was stowed on an archaeology shelf.

(No, wait; that belongs there. Not the work of an elf.)

As I came ‘round a corner, glumly pushing a broom,

I stopped short and stared at the sight of the room.

I saw tinsel on cases, bows and ribbons on jars,

Glitter on all of the ‘gators and gars.

LED lights pulsed and twitched all around the collection,

Color-coded just so for each separate section.

The cases were plundered, above and beneath,

And someone had glued up a huge coral wreath.

Everything glistened with solvents and glues

And more glitter. All over me, head down to shoes.

Fake snow (or moth crystals) lay in lumps, bumps and heaps.

The docents had done this. The scoundrels. The creeps.

I knew that this needed an investigation:

Someone was committing felony decoration.

Away to the fume hood I flew like a flash,

But, due to the fake snow, could not lift the sash.

When what to my watering eyes should appear

But a miniature forklift and eight hulking reindeer.

Most amazing (even now, a sane mind just boggles),

They were all dressed in Tyvek and wearing splash goggles.

And the little old driver, I realized much later,

Was decked out in gloves and a full-face respirator.

And then, in a twinkling, as I waited, expectant,

They set to work cleaning, using much disinfectant.

They rubbed and they scrubbed and they sorted in bins

Recyclables, decipherables, a few study skins.

I stood there in awe as they zipped station to station,

Tidying up every eyesore violation.

The tinsel, the ribbons, the bows, and the glue

Vanished in seconds. (The glitter went, too1.)

The dioramas were scoured, storage furniture polished,

And each decoration completely demolished2.

Then laying a finger aside of his mask

(And with one last gulp from his glittery hip flask)

He called to his reindeer, and, as everyone knows,

Clanking back up the air vent, old St Nick arose.

He sprang to his forklift, to his team gave a cheer,

And away they all flew like…a bunch of reindeer.

But I heard him call out, going down his checklist,

Making sure that no reindeer was idling or missed,

“On Nitrile! On Spillkit! On Hardhat and Screen!

On Face Shield and Eyewash, Absorbent, Visine!”

And I heard him exclaim, ‘ere they flew out of range,

“Merry Haz-Mat to All! That museum is strange!”



[1] *Mostly* gone. It still surfaces, once in a while, on a curator’s
shoes. Always gives me a smile.



2 We deaccession by skeet shoot. It makes our hearts full. Object to an
object? Just wait to hear “Pull!”



*Sally Shelton and John Simmons wish everyone a glittering, glittering
holiday.*
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