TWAS the night before Christmas, when all through the house.
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by our lounge chair with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap.
Had just settled down for a long summer’s nap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter.
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
And what I beheld there in front of me,
Certainly not what I expected to see.
There in the darkness, I could have sworn,
Stood eight reindeer grazing upon my front lawn.
Healthy, contented and really quite fat.
Quality livestock; and clean skins at that.
I should have retired and gone back to bed,
But an idea came creeping right into my head.
For I am an agent, and an agent am I,
I’ll be blowed if I let this chance slip me by.
I pulled on my boots and snatched up my whip,
Without being seen through the side door I slip.
While into our house old Santa had snuck,
I loaded his reindeer up into my truck.
I’m one for ideas, I’m a new business comber,
In four hours I’d be at the saleyards in Roma.
As I drove I sent word via phone and e-mail.
This year Christmas day would hold a store sale.
Word now had spread and I was in luck,
For a crowd gathered in as I backed up the truck.
They knew I meant business; completely sincere,
As I made sure each lot had a tag in its ear.
With gavel in hand I climbed up a rail,
Cried out “sale-o” and got on with the sale.
“Lot one here is Dancer, and as you can tell,
“She’s from that cold country that’s tick-free as well.”
I made up the bloodlines, and bathed them in honey,
No surprises that Rudolph went for the top money.
The prices were solid and every one sold,
But I copped some stick for they clearly weren’t polled.
You may be intrigued at this tale tall,
For why do we still have a Christmas at all?
Surely if reindeer were sold under gavel,
I must have disrupted St Nick’s form of travel?
Quite the contraire, this problem you speak,
I didn’t leave Santa Clause stuck up a creek.
For a jolly good price I cut him some slack,
And sold him eight heifers I’d had out the back.
So now out the front there pulling his sleigh,
Four Droughties, three Brahman and one Charolais.
They take him from rooftops and all the world over,
And Santa now calls himself Christmas Drover.
Santa’s now happy, for a change he was needing,
And it came courtesy of Aussie beef breeding.
Each year he pulls in for yarn when it’s late,
Then says with a wink, “Merry Christmas, old mate.”