Cosmo Foreskyn
2018-12-21 13:08:10 UTC
Twas the night before Christmas, and out on the ramp, Not an airplane
was stirring, not even a Champ.
The aircraft were fastened to tiedowns with care,
In hopes that come morning, they all would be there. The fuel trucks
were nestled, all snug in their spots, With gusts from two-forty at 39
knots.
I slumped at the fuel desk, now finally caught up, And settled down
comfortably, resting my butt. When the radio lit up with noise and with
chatter, I turned up the scanner to see what was the matter. A voice
clearly heard over static and snow,
Called for clearance to land at the airport below.
He barked his transmission so lively and quick,
I'd have sworn that the call sign he used was "St. Nick". I ran to the
panel to turn up the lights,
The better to welcome this magical flight.
He called his position, no room for denial,
"St. Nicholas One, turnin' left onto final."
And what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a Rutan-built sleigh, with eight Rotax Reindeer! With vectors to
final, down the glideslope he came, As he passed all fixes, he called
them by name: "Now Ringo! Now Tolga! Now Trini and Bacun! On Comet! On
Cupid!" What pills was he takin'?
While controllers were sittin', and scratchin' their head, They phoned
to my office, and I heard it with dread, The message they left was both
urgent and dour: "When Santa pulls in, have him please call the tower."
He landed like silk, with the sled runners sparking, Then I heard "Left
at Charlie," and "Taxi to parking." He slowed to a taxi, turned off of
three-oh
And stopped on the ramp with a "Ho, ho-ho-ho..."
He stepped out of the sleigh, but before he could talk,
I ran out to meet him with my best set of chocks.
His red helmet and goggles were covered with frost And his beard was
all blackened from Reindeer exhaust. His breath smelled like
peppermint, gone slightly stale, And he puffed on a pipe, but he didn't
inhale.
His cheeks were all rosy and jiggled like jelly,
His boots were as black as a cropduster's belly.
He was chubby and plump, in his suit of bright red, And he asked me to
"fill it, with hundred low-lead." He came dashing in from the
snow-covered pump, I knew he was anxious for draining' the sump.
I spoke not a word, but went straight to my work, And I filled up the
sleigh, but I spilled like a jerk. He came out of the restroom, and
sighed in relief, Then he picked up a phone for a Flight Service brief.
And I thought as he silently scribed in his log,
These reindeer could land in an eighth-mile fog.
He completed his pre-flight, from the front to the rear, Then he put on
his headset, and I heard him yell, "Clear!" And laying a finger on his
push-to-talk,
He called up the tower for clearance and squawk.
"Take taxiway Charlie, the southbound direction,
Turn right three-two-zero at pilot's discretion"
He sped down the runway, the best of the best,
"Your traffic's a Grumman, inbound from the west."
Then I heard him proclaim, as he climbed through the night, "Merry
Christmas to all! I have traffic in sight."
was stirring, not even a Champ.
The aircraft were fastened to tiedowns with care,
In hopes that come morning, they all would be there. The fuel trucks
were nestled, all snug in their spots, With gusts from two-forty at 39
knots.
I slumped at the fuel desk, now finally caught up, And settled down
comfortably, resting my butt. When the radio lit up with noise and with
chatter, I turned up the scanner to see what was the matter. A voice
clearly heard over static and snow,
Called for clearance to land at the airport below.
He barked his transmission so lively and quick,
I'd have sworn that the call sign he used was "St. Nick". I ran to the
panel to turn up the lights,
The better to welcome this magical flight.
He called his position, no room for denial,
"St. Nicholas One, turnin' left onto final."
And what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a Rutan-built sleigh, with eight Rotax Reindeer! With vectors to
final, down the glideslope he came, As he passed all fixes, he called
them by name: "Now Ringo! Now Tolga! Now Trini and Bacun! On Comet! On
Cupid!" What pills was he takin'?
While controllers were sittin', and scratchin' their head, They phoned
to my office, and I heard it with dread, The message they left was both
urgent and dour: "When Santa pulls in, have him please call the tower."
He landed like silk, with the sled runners sparking, Then I heard "Left
at Charlie," and "Taxi to parking." He slowed to a taxi, turned off of
three-oh
And stopped on the ramp with a "Ho, ho-ho-ho..."
He stepped out of the sleigh, but before he could talk,
I ran out to meet him with my best set of chocks.
His red helmet and goggles were covered with frost And his beard was
all blackened from Reindeer exhaust. His breath smelled like
peppermint, gone slightly stale, And he puffed on a pipe, but he didn't
inhale.
His cheeks were all rosy and jiggled like jelly,
His boots were as black as a cropduster's belly.
He was chubby and plump, in his suit of bright red, And he asked me to
"fill it, with hundred low-lead." He came dashing in from the
snow-covered pump, I knew he was anxious for draining' the sump.
I spoke not a word, but went straight to my work, And I filled up the
sleigh, but I spilled like a jerk. He came out of the restroom, and
sighed in relief, Then he picked up a phone for a Flight Service brief.
And I thought as he silently scribed in his log,
These reindeer could land in an eighth-mile fog.
He completed his pre-flight, from the front to the rear, Then he put on
his headset, and I heard him yell, "Clear!" And laying a finger on his
push-to-talk,
He called up the tower for clearance and squawk.
"Take taxiway Charlie, the southbound direction,
Turn right three-two-zero at pilot's discretion"
He sped down the runway, the best of the best,
"Your traffic's a Grumman, inbound from the west."
Then I heard him proclaim, as he climbed through the night, "Merry
Christmas to all! I have traffic in sight."