’Twas the Monday before Christmas,

when all through the manse,

not a hashtag was stirring, no tweets had a chance.

The stockings were hung right by the Kindle Fire

in case our new Bitcoins began to expire.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

while visions of Playstations danced in their heads.


The flash drive was set on max megahertz,

all tablets and phablets were put on alerts.

Our Fitbit was charging and Netflix were streaming,

young children everywhere were pleasantly dreaming.

We Kickstarted and crowdsourced and sent out some Vines,

we checked YouTube channels for any new signs.

We ran Kaspersky and cleaned the plasma screen,

we dialed up Skype to transmit the whole scene.

We downloaded a number of total killer apps —

our mobile devices never suffered a lapse.


We scanned the news on Reddit and logged in to Spotify.

We didn’t even log off when the server went awry.

We still had Google Plus and even Google Chrome.

We still had Foursquare we could call home.

Our Instagram photos were almost all ready.

Our 4G LTE was amazingly steady.

We trolled and snapchatted all through the night

to make sure all our terminology was right.

We took some selfies and saved them to Pinterest.

We uploaded to Dropbox the ones that were the best.

We checked our Facebook page and scanned the Huff Post,

we raised our Tumblrs and made a hearty toast.

We Linked-in with colleagues and checked Wikipedia

but decided, after all, not to inform the mainstream media.


Then on the back deck, beside the satellite dish,

there came a loud sound and we knew something was amiss.

I went to look to check out the clatter,

to see if something was wrong with my data.

When what to my pixel-ated eyes should appear,

but a mixed-media sleigh and eight remote-controlled reindeer.

I knew in an instant after checking Firefox,

that Santa was here and sporting dreadlocks.

And then in a twinkling I saw from my futon

poor old St. Nick didn’t have his red suit on.


His eyes were all watery, his mouth just a frown.

He said, with a grimace, his Samsung was down.

There will be no gifts tonight, he added apace —

“I have no spreadsheets nor my database!”


And then he let out a really terrible groan,

and we wondered: Could we still get deliveries by drone?

The whole scene had become incredibly eerie,

meaning we probably couldn’t even count on Siri.

But could we find a way through this terrible mess?

Could we find a way without our GPS?


We thought of creating a new avatar.

We thought of getting a drink at the bar.

We thought of putting on our Google Glass,

and then we thought, most of all, of just taking a pass.

Finally we heard from someone with an iPhone 6,

from someone who truly understood our awful fix.

Santa, we were told, could do it by hand.

He wasn’t a slave of a high-frequency band.

He didn’t need the Cloud or to send a new text.

He didn’t need high-def or whatever came next.

All he’d need was a big sack and lots of big smiles.

There’d be no need to download any corrupt files.


His eyes, how they twinkled, his smile gleamed so brightly!

His bandwidth was solid, his Jpegs quite sprightly.

He sprang to his sleigh, the reindeer came near.

He started cruise control while still in first gear.

I heard him exclaim as he cruised out of sight,

“Merry Christmas to all and to all a good byte.”