'Twas the night before christmas,
not a noise was heard.
Although one was sleepless,
but never said a word.
He typed and he gamed,
He strummed and he played
whatever might ease his mind.
None could bring peace to the boy,
so for christmas he wished for a toy,
one which he could easily find.
It would have bells and whistles,
but skin as rough as thistles,
and would wield eyes to stare into his soul.
Whenever the boy would look,
he would wonder what It took,
to turn his insides into coal.
How he wanted to re-write the Book of Time
but alas he has run out of rhyme.
So for now, we must end with a cliff.
For your minds only, this boy will soon become a stiff.
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