‘Twas the Thursday before Christmas

when all through the town,

not a hashtag was tweeting, even Twitter was down.

The stockings were hung in a retina display

in hopes that no drones would take them away.

The children were nestled, all snug and secure,

while Big Data mined their free FICO score.

***

The USB ports were all fully employed

as we began charging our Motorola Droid.

Our nice new Apple watch had a vast cache,

which would’ve been fine, but we had to pay cash.

Our Fitbit was running and Netflix were streaming,

young children everywhere were pleasantly dreaming

of toys and gifts that would become a new meme,

of toys and gifts that’d be the crème de la cream.

***

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 chatted on whatsapp to find out what’s up;

with our VPN firewall, no need for backup.

***

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 that we could call home.

Our Instagram photos were almost all ready

while our 4G LTE was amazingly steady.

We trolled and snapchatted all through the night

to make sure our terminology was utterly right.

We took 50 selfies and saved them to Pinterest.

We uploaded to Dropbox the ones that were best.

We checked our Facebook page and scanned the Huff Post,

we raised our Tumblrs and made a hearty toast.

***

Then on the back deck, beside the satellite dish,

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

I went to my Roku 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 my OS,

that Santa was here and in some distress.

And then in a twinkling I saw from my futon,

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

***

His eyes were all watery, his emoji a frown.

He said, with a grimace, his wi-fi was down.

There will be no gifts tonight, he added apace —

“I have no spreadsheets, nor my database!”

Santa couldn’t do it? It made us feel sick.

Was the whole cyber world just playing a trick?

***

Could we find a way through this terrible mess?

Could we find a way without our GPS?

We thought of creating a new avatar

or getting FedEx from a self-driving car

— or maybe just getting a drink at the bar.

The whole scene had become incredibly eerie,

at this point we couldn’t even count on our Siri.

***

Then we heard from someone who used to read Wired,

from someone who was no longer high-tech inspired.

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 comes next.

All he’d need was a big sack and a big hearty laugh.

He wouldn’t need 10 megagigs — not even half.

***

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

His bandwidth was solid, his PDFs quite sprightly.

He sprang to his sleigh, the reindeer came near.

He blasted Sirius XM 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.”

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