‘Twas the night before Creighton, when all through the Vault

Not a Husker was stirring, things had ground to a halt.

The jerseys were hung in their lockers with care,

In hopes that St. Timothy soon would be there.

The Jayskers were nestled all snug in their beds,

Their shoes in their closets (they were definitely Keds).

They had red polos for fall, blue cardigans for the winter,

To allow them to change partners, like a horn dog on Tinder.

My wife was asleep. Me? Only partly awake,

When a noise shattered silence, like a base drop from Drake.

I jumped to my feet and ran to the window,

Faster than Snoop if he heard, “Yo, Free Endo!”

The streetlight shown bright on the new-fallen snow

And a voice called out from the night, “Hey, Chill Bro!”

Then, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a gold-leafed sleigh, that was all stocked with beer.

With a driver so skinny, and whiter than Skim,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Tim.

Players leapt from the sleigh, he made me believe,

Then he whistled and they started a dope 3-man weave

“Now, Watson! now, Morrow! now, Jordy and Roby!

On, Webster! On, Jack! Shoot that J, just like Kobe!

To the top of the key! Then hit them in the ribs!

Even though it’s been years, I still hate GRANT GIBBS.”

As cold winds that blow, so fast that they numb us,

They ran like Jays fans to Whole Foods to get hummus.

So up to the house-top the players they flew,

Saint Tim, he just smiled, and cracked open a brew.

And then, like a boss, he handed me beers

Then he winked and we clinked with traditional cheers.

We chugged down our beers to calm nerves ‘fore the game

While the Huskers racked up threes like that dude Lillard, Dame.

Tim was dressed in a suit, and he made quite a racket

In typical Tim fashion, he took off his jacket.

A bundle of plays he had drawn on his board,

To defend Lincoln’s borders from that Bird-loving horde.

His eyes-how determined! his face wore a scowl!

He had camo on his grill, like a man hunting fowl!

He stomped, clapped and shouted, it was almost a dance

He was more turnt than a Jaysker buying new Corduroy pants.

He spoke not a word, but got straight on track,

Trying to slay that great ape, that resides on his back.

He turned to me, raised his hands to the air in a line

Pointing straight up like a Creighton pinkie while drinking wine!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like a win-seeking missile.

Over head so fast the flew, shouting, I dove down to duck it,

“Merry Christmas to all, and tell Creighton to suck it!”

FIN