Twas the night before Christmas
throughout boxing land.

With the elves still debating
Leonard-Duran.

I'd just settled in with
a cup of egg nog
fired up my computer,
and checked my mail log,
When a voice in my head,
Yeah, I hear them, you see,
said, "Jump to the newsgroups
and check RSB."

The debating, berating,
"I know more than you!"
the timeless old question of,
"Who could beat who?"

The trollers and strollers,
and resident scribes,
like glitter and lights,
on a tree made of jibes.

"Will Jones fight Ruiz?"
"Was Ali the best?"
"Can Tyson in rematch,
give Lewis a test?"

Through this jumble and tumble
of "maybe, who knows?"
From the roof of my house,
a clatter arose.

And I ran to the window,
to see what's amiss,
when I saw such a site,
that I gave up Old Mist.

There a fat, jolly fellow,
Butterbean all in red?
Was driving a heap,
that I took for a sled.

And the creatures that pulled it,
reindeer I suppose,
Were led by a moose,
with a glowing red nose.

And he called out loudly,
as he took up the reigns,
"Get pulling this wagon,
for I beat out your brains!

On Tyson, and Lewis,
pull Tua, you lout!
You're slacking there, Mosely,
don't make me get out!

On Arum and King,
quit bickering, you two,
or I'll show you some more of
the toe of my shoe!
And Roy quit complaining,
about all the freight,
your alphabet straps,
make up half the weight.

Now Tito and Hamed,
don't think you can quit,
we've gifts to deliver,
so get over it.

Quit butting, Evander,
Ruiz, don't you clinch,
or it's back to Whoville
to pull for the Grinch."

And they slid from the roof,
in a dazzle of snow,
and I thought sure they'd crash,
on the street far below.

But the sled-thing went upwards,
like the hair on King's head,
and the reindeer with odd names,
and the moose with nose red.

They flew away skyward,
with the grace of duck,
broke TV antennas,
grazed the top of a truck,
and I swore that I heard,
for they lumbered from sight,
"Merry Christmas to all .

quit biting, there, Mike!"