‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the shack,
No computer was whirring, and that means the Mac.
It worked hours ago, every bit, every byte,
Yet the thing sat there dumbly, display dark as night.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
Their parents distraught that the iMac seemed dead.
“No iChat with Gramma? No iTunes faves starred?”
“No ripping? No tweeting? No dancing-elf card!?”
The children would cry; Adelaide, Jill, Tom, Pete,
An iMac-less Christmas just wasn’t complete.
“Just where can we turn at this ungodly time?”
“And who has the wits to restore its fine chime?”
Then Mother (who always pulls through in a clutch),
Suggested the Web via her iPod touch.
When Father asked who might take on such a chore,
She said “Macworld’s forums have helped me before.”
She proffered her question, being detailed and clear,
Yet worried that there would be no answer here.
She waited on d00d, she waited on Griffman,
MacCheetah, macnuke, the dougster, and spliffman.
She waited on whitedog and Macs-suck-eggs Dan,
(Oh wait, she recalled, he’s a troll who’s been banned).
She waited on Cohen, she waited on Snell,
Could no one extract her poor iMac from hell?
Then as she refreshed there appeared a reply,
But one unexpected, no way, not this guy.
For as she examined the source of this post,
She gasped when she saw that it came from a ghost.
“When fooling with lights (and at such a late hour),”
“It’s easy to lose track of what thing has power.”
“It’s likely you’re tired, long day that it’s been,”
“You checked on the cord? Are you sure it’s plugged in?”
With that she looked down, and she joyfully raved,
“The cord is unplugged! Our bacon is saved!”
“Our thanks to you sir, from the family and me,”
“Merry Christmas, we miss you, our good friend, Grant G.”