12/25/2025
'Twas the night before Christmas at Wits End Farm,
(So named for the chaos and lack of any calm).
The elderly goats were just creaky and slow,
But those darn cows? They were stars of the show.
The cows had escaped—yes, again, number three,
Wandering the driveway like they owned the country.
The alpacas were nestled, all snug in their hay,
Shaking their heads at the cows' getaway.
The miniature horse stood watch by the fence,
While the pot-bellied pig thought the cows had no sense.
The field dogwas dozing, her collar askew,
As poor Michael ran out of the house yelling "Oh F$+k.
When out in the driveway there arose such a sound,
Of mooing and chewing as cows wandered around.
Away to the pasture my husband did sprint,
Muttering words I won't dare put in print.
The moon on the frost made the farmyard look bright,
Illuminating cows on their latest jailbreak flight.
When what to our weary and frustrated eyes,
Should appear but old Saint Nick, to our great surprise!
He chuckled at seeing those cows on the lam,
Each one acting like they didn't give a damn!
"On Dasher! On Dancer!" he called with a grin,
While rounding up cattle and herding them in.
He fixed up their fence with some North Pole magic,
(Those escape-artist cows were becoming quite tragic).
The goats watched sedately, too old to cause trouble,
While Santa repaired the fence on the double.
And we heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight,
"Good luck with damn those cows—Merry Christmas, good night!"
