The Knit Before Christmas

The Knit Before Christmas

I wrote the following parody of the classic Christmas poem a year or two ago. It was the start of a lot of creative things in my life.

Twas the Knit before Christmas and all over the room, unfinished projects were everywhere, strewn. The stockings weren't hung; they didn't have toes, and the wrap in my lap needed sixty more rows.

The children's new mittens would never been done. They looked more like wristwarmers sporting thumbs.

Dad's fisherman's knit had a large gaping hole. My sister's striped ski hat could fit a large bowl.

I forgot to put fringe on my mother's new shawl. And my husband's socks lay in a magic loop ball.  The backpack I felted would have to be sewn, since it shrunk in the wash and might fit my phone.

I started to panic, but then I decided, "I'll just give them cash, they'll all be delighted."

But then I remembered I had not a cent. I'd spent it on yarn, leaving not even rent.

Tears welled in my eyes as I put down my needle and curled on my side in a position quite fetal.

Then, out on the lawn, I heard such commotion that I ran with my scissors and dropped every notion.

Away to the window I flew in a flash, knocked over my basket and tripped on my stash. 

The moon on the snow gave me a start, caused it looked like a pompom that had fallen apart.

When what did I see that made me feel loco, but a little old man with a beard of Berroco.

He was dressed all in mohair, or maybe a blend, with a stockinette scarf that just wouldn't end.

His sweater was Fair Isle, he looked like a rogue. The pattern so detailed - it must be from Vogue.

He spoke not a word but went straight for a stocking. Then he grabbed for the purses that all needed blocking.

More rapid then Addi's the projects they came, and he whistled and shouted and called them by name.

Now Capelet - Now Afghan - Now Leggings - Now Rug. On Poncho, On Dickie, on Earmuffs - on Shrug.

To the top of a crewneck, he added a cowl. From a lightweight chenille, he knitted a towel.

I watched in amazement as he dropped and yarned-over to crank out a coat and some booties for Rover. 

From a fingerweight silk he knitted a glove. As he purled all around me, I thought it was love.

He fixed every stitch without one single rip. In the wink of an eye, there was nary a WIP.

I thanked him profusely. He kindly accepted. My last minute elf as hardly expected. 

As he started to leave, I grabbed for a skein. And he turned back around and he said, "You're insane." 

"But my projects are finished, you made them all better," I replied, with a wink, "I'll just start a sweater."

He ran from my sight, on his sleigh off he flew.

Now, Merry Christmas to All. I've got to knitting to do.

I wrote the following parody of the classic Christmas poem a year or two ago. It was the start of a lot of creative things in my life.

Twas the Knit before Christmas and all over the room, unfinished projects were everywhere, strewn. The stockings weren't hung; they didn't have toes, and the wrap in my lap needed sixty more rows.

The children's new mittens would never been done. They looked more like wristwarmers sporting thumbs.

Dad's fisherman's knit had a large gaping hole. My sister's striped ski hat could fit a large bowl.

I forgot to put fringe on my mother's new shawl. And my husband's socks lay in a magic loop ball.  The backpack I felted would have to be sewn, since it shrunk in the wash and might fit my phone.

I started to panic, but then I decided, "I'll just give them cash, they'll all be delighted."

But then I remembered I had not a cent. I'd spent it on yarn, leaving not even rent.

Tears welled in my eyes as I put down my needle and curled on my side in a position quite fetal.

Then, out on the lawn, I heard such commotion that I ran with my scissors and dropped every notion.

Away to the window I flew in a flash, knocked over my basket and tripped on my stash. 

The moon on the snow gave me a start, caused it looked like a pompom that had fallen apart.

When what did I see that made me feel loco, but a little old man with a beard of Berroco.

He was dressed all in mohair, or maybe a blend, with a stockinette scarf that just wouldn't end.

His sweater was Fair Isle, he looked like a rogue. The pattern so detailed - it must be from Vogue.

He spoke not a word but went straight for a stocking. Then he grabbed for the purses that all needed blocking.

More rapid then Addi's the projects they came, and he whistled and shouted and called them by name.

Now Capelet - Now Afghan - Now Leggings - Now Rug. On Poncho, On Dickie, on Earmuffs - on Shrug.

To the top of a crewneck, he added a cowl. From a lightweight chenille, he knitted a towel.

I watched in amazement as he dropped and yarned-over to crank out a coat and some booties for Rover. 

From a fingerweight silk he knitted a glove. As he purled all around me, I thought it was love.

He fixed every stitch without one single rip. In the wink of an eye, there was nary a WIP.

I thanked him profusely. He kindly accepted. My last minute elf as hardly expected. 

As he started to leave, I grabbed for a skein. And he turned back around and he said, "You're insane." 

"But my projects are finished, you made them all better," I replied, with a wink, "I'll just start a sweater."

He ran from my sight, on his sleigh off he flew.

Now, Merry Christmas to All. I've got to knitting to do.