‘Twas the night before Christmas, when around the world,
chatter of holidays, of presents, of cheer swirled.
Folks prepared to partake in traditions that night.
For each country, each region a different delight.
The voyage begins in global south, in summer.
Christmas in warm months, it’s really no bummer.
Celebration is first for friends in Australia.
The heat of December is never a failure.
Long days, short nights, shrimp roasting on a barbeque,
red swimsuits, Santa hats, form our tradition too.
In Japan, ‘tis a meal made of tasty chicken,
Golden fried crisp, so good its finger lickin’.
The recipe crafted to total perfection,
followed by desert, a strawberry confection
From Asia we take our sleigh for its next long route.
We must catch the European moon while ‘tis out.
Russia, you know, does not celebrate the twenty-fifth.
‘Tis the sparkle of New Year which comes to us with
Grandfather Frost, who gives me a candy, a gift.
C novum godom, with the New Year, time moves so swift.
Mighty Latvia enjoys roast pork, boiled peas.
‘Tis also the home of the first Christmas trees.
In 1510, Riga, proud pines in central square.
It started a trend, a common tradition from there.
Snowy Norway is home to the gnome called the nisse.
He’s insulted ‘til we give him his yummy feast.
Julegrot rice pudding, topped with a pat of butter.
The sweet, savory taste makes the gnome heart flutter.
Midwinterhoornblazen toot from the chilly north.
In Netherlands these long horns issue calls forth.
Resonate, complex, deep, mighty, roaring blare
that thunders through the snow and fills the crisp air.
‘Tis Germany, home of Hansel and Gretel, where
we find gingerbread houses beyond compare.
Lebkuchenhaus built of different sweet treats,
the making of which our holiday completes.
He’s not Santa in France, but dear Pere Noel.
He fills shoes with treats, even when they smell.
We do not leave milk, cookies, or other food.
Give a grown man dairy to spoil his mood.
We must now leave Europe, continue our trip
Above North America, again we must dip
To the friendly land of that famous dish, poutine.
Holiday alley, Montreal, forms the routine.
Our winter wonderland of snow crusted pines,
twinkling lights, whimsy, and a few long lines.
Then South, and West to the good ‘ole US of A.
Vegas, where a melting pot of tradition lay.
In a warm desert, no snow on the ground.
But lights, shows, festivity around us abound.
Now the moon descends low as daybreak comes near.
‘Tis the end of the circle of holiday cheer.
The only words left to say, as we land our flight,
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
