A Christmas Visit: A Star Trek Fan-Fiction Poem
‘Twas the night before Christmas, and on my starship
Not a creature was stirring—‘twas our homeward trip.
The luggage was laid by the transporters with care,
In hopes that the Enterprise soon would be there.
The day crew were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of planet Earth danced in their heads;
And Spock in his cabin, and I in my own,
Had just settled our course through reaches unknown,
When on the ship’s sensors there arose such a stirring,
I sprang from my bunk to see what was occurring.
Away to the bridge I flew like a flash,
And switched on the main viewer with one rapid slash.
The stars all around us, as always, in space
Gave illusions of midnight to every far place;
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature starship approaching quite near,
With a little old captain, so lively and quick,
I wondered at once: Could it be St. Nick?
More rapid than comets his starship it came,
And he hailed us, and shouted, and called us by name:
“Now, Scotty! Now, Sulu! Now, Spock and McCoy!
I’m here, Captain, here laddie, here Jamie boy!
Just passing by—you don’t think I forgot?
Here I come, here I come, ready or not!”
As cosmic dust that before the nebulas fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, whirl through the sky,
So up to the nacelles, the tiny thing flew,
The miniature starship and Santa Claus, too.
In a twinkling, I rushed to the transporter station,
And sent the night crew for some late recreation.
A twist of controls, a gold sparkle of sound,
And suddenly Santa arrived with a bound.
He was all covered in fur, from his neck to his boot,
And his clothes were the color of red plomeek soup.
A bundle of goodies he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a trader just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they glimmered! His dimples, how cute!
His cheeks were all rosy, his nose a droll snoot.
His roguish little mouth was drawn up in a bow,
And the beard of his chin bristled white as moon-glow.
The stump of a candy cane was clamped in his teeth,
And his breath, it smelled just like a peppermint wreath.
He had a broad face and pudgy round middle,
And looked rather like an overstuffed tribble.
He was all fuzzy and plump, a right rascally old chap,
And I grinned when I saw him reach into his sack;
A wink of his eye and a click of his boots
Soon gave me to know we were in perfect cahoots.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the luggage, then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, to the transporter he rose;
He smiled and he winked and he gave a salute,
And I beamed St. Nick out and turned from the loot.
And I was heard to exclaim, as I went back to bed,
“Not believe in Santa? Let it never be said!”
By M.C. Pehrson