'Twas the night before a New York Giants Christmas

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through John Mara's house
The creatures were conferring, Tom Coughlin might not be a louse;
The stockings were hung on the goal posts with care,
In hopes that OBJ's Rookie of the Year Award soon would be there;

The fans were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of a bright future danced in their heads;
And folks in their 'Beezer Brigade' t-shirts, and I in my cap,
Were ready to settle down for a long football off-season nap,

When out on the MetLife Stadium turf there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my overworked laptop to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters hoping to see Perry Fewell tossed out with the trash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to the Field Turf below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
Odell Beckham doing The Whip, oh, dear,

With a shake and a shimmy, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must not be a trick.
More rapid than Eagles (of course) his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, ELI! now, LARRY! now, RUEBEN and WESTON!
On, PRESTON! on ANDRE! on, RASHAD and JUSTIN!
To the end zone! to the end zone! ! to the end zone with the ball!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away so we can whip them all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
Another playoff-less season is making fans cry,
Tom must go! Jerry, Perry and the evil Quinn, too! 
They play all the wrong boys, so many simply want them to shoo.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Santa Weatherford came with a bound.

He was dressed all in workout gear, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all sweaty, but he hardly looked kaput;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
Good thing he was used to lifting barbells off the rack.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like Tom Coughlin's in January!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a taut face and six-pack abs with no belly,
That rippled, when he laughed not like a bowlful of jelly.

He had with him a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw it was Rex Ryan, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know Perry Fewell's Giants career truly was dead;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; too bad Will Hill was such a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, looking like a punted missile,
And away he flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT!"