My buddy, Skip Arey (N2EI), shared the following poem on his Facebook page and has kindly allowed me to post it here!

Skip writes:

“I originally published this in the NASWA “FRENDX” club journal in 1987 and later in the December 1992 issue of Monitoring Times magazine. Many thanks to Steven K. Roberts for recovering the text for me as it never stuck to my hard drive. Enjoy.”

A DXer’s Christmas

(With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)

‘Twas the night before Christmas,
and all through the house
The “Harmonics” were sleeping,
and so was the spouse;
The antennas were hung
from the chimney with care
in hopes that some signals
would come through the air;
The receivers were nestled
all neat in a row, With filters and tuners
all ready to go;
With a strong cup of coffee,
sitting at my right hand,
I had just settled in to some radio band,
When out of my headphones
there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my desk
to see what was the matter.
Away to the window
I flew like a flash,
To determine the cause of this odd static crash.
The Moon on the breast
of the new -fallen snow,
Gave my antenna wires an unusual glow;
When what to my wondering
eyes should appear,
But a weird little sleigh
and eight tiny reindeer.
With a strange little driver,
who looked like a “Hippie,”
I though for a moment
my brain had gone dippy.
More rapid than eagles
his coursers they came,
And he wheezed, and he cursed, as he called them by name: “Now Ten-Tec! Now Icom!
Now Yaesu and Philips!
On Grundig! On Sony!
On Kenwood and Collins!
Watch out for the porch!
Watch out for the wall!
Stay out of the way,
and don’t let me fall!”
As dry leaves that before
the wild hurricane ride,
When they met with an obstacle,
they kicked it aside.
So up to the house -top
the coursers they flew,
And got tangled in wire;
the old Hippie did too.
And then, in a twinkling
I heard through the ceiling, a great deal of cursing,
and swearing, and squealing.
As I shook my head,
and hollered out “Stop!”
Down the chimney the bearded one
fell with a plop.
He was dressed all in denim,
from his headphones to tail,
His clothes smelled like sweatsocks,
and his breath like cheap ale;
The stump of a stogie
he held tight in his teeth.
And the rancid smoke circled
his head like a wreath;
He had a fat face
and a great big beer -belly,
That shook when he burped,
like a bowlful of jelly.
He spoke not a word
but went straight to his work,
Opened up my receiver,
and tuned with a jerk.
Then sticking a finger
inside of his nose,
And giving a burp,
up the chimney he rose. The receiver it squealed,
and gave out a whistle,
And the stations I heard that night,
would fill an epistle.
And I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy DX, Old Man,
next time, leave on a light!”