Back in 2003 on Christmas Eve I posted this goofy herpetology version of "Twas the Night Before Christmas". Well anyway, somebody on another website found a copy of it and wanted to know who wrote it. Anyway, I dug it out and I'm going to post it again. Only the old timers who know who Ditmars and Kauffeld are will be able to read this without yawning (and maybe not even them). But it's as close as I can get to an appropriate Christmas poem for this website. Merry Christmas.
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the rack
not a serpent was stirring, they’d all hit the sack.
The snake bags were hung by my bedside with care
In case an escapee I happened to snare.
The pinkies were frozen all snug in the chest
Since most think that freezing kills cooties the best.
And fuzzies in vacuum and jumbos in bags
Were packed in the freezer with legible tags.
When down in the basement there arose such a clatter
I put down my Kauffeld to see what was the matter.
Away to the staircase I flew like a flash
Tripped on my feet and fell down with a crash.
The stars that I saw as I fell on my head
Made me wish with less haste I more carefully had tread.
When what to my unfocused eyes should appear
But Raymond L. Ditmars in rugged terrain gear.
With a crappy old snake stick so battered and split
I knew in a moment it must be Old Dit.
More haggard than geezers his disciples they came
And he whispered and gestured and called them by name.
Hey Klauber, hey Barbour, shhh Mertens, be ready!
Hey Conant, Yo! Kauffeld, And you Gloyd, keep steady.
When I lift up the rock and before it can fall
Then snatch away, catch away, bag away all!
As young girls that before a half-off sale fly
When met with a bargain, out loud they will cry
So down on the ground the geezers they flew
And bellowed and swore and some giggled too.
And then in a twinkling I heard in the sacks
The rustling around of snake snouts and snake backs.
As they tied up their bags and gathered around,
Back Ditmars jumped and dropped the rock to the ground.
He was dressed all in Khaki from pith helmet to foot
And his clothes were all soggy with mildew to boot.
An obviously dead snake that lay on its back
Ditmars posed as alive (since that was his knack).
His Nerodia was Natrix, his subspecies too many,
His ability to work with DNA was not any.
His Horned Toad (ditmarsi) he claimed you could find
But now we assume he was out of his mind.
He ran the Bronx Zoo and had lots of fun
He played with big pythons, that son of a gun.
He wrote reptile books and now they’re all classic
And I liked his stories better than a Park named Jurassic.
He was definitely great, really top shelf
I still read his books in spite of myself.
But the twitch of my eye and the ache of my head
Soon reminded me then that these guys were all dead.
He spoke not a word but went straight to his work
And filled all my cages with Elaphe then turned with a jerk.
And smacking his staff right upside my head
They all disappeared and left me for dead.
I bounced off the floor and sprang to my feet
I flew up the stairs and ran down the street
I heard him exclaim ere he flew out of sight
“I’m trying to road cruise so get out of my light!”.
