‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Arsene Wenger soon buy some new players;
The Gooners were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of David Villa danced in their heads;
Mrs. Kickoff in her night gown, and I in my tattoos,
Had just settled down for a pre-Christmas snooze,
When out on the Internet there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the laptop I flew like a flash,
Tore open the lid and logged on slapdash.
Then by the light of Google’s pale glow,
I read the newspapers I love and know,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a news story so preposterous it brought out a tear.
About a pack of great players, so lively and quick,
Each one 6 foot 4 and 5 feet thick.
With the touch of the Angels and headers of fame,
And the Journo he bellowed, and called them by name;
“Now, Dzeko! now, Gignac! now, Chamakh and Green!
On, Saha! on, Cole and thousands of players before unseen!
He’ll fill up the stadium to the top of the wall!
Arsene Wenger, Arsene Wenger will surely buy them all!”
I put down the laptop, to rest my weary eyes,
For it was just another reporter writing crap I despise.
When then, in a clatter, which sounded like Beirut,
Was the sound of 11 footballers and their 8-spiked boots.
As I closed the laptop lid, and was turning around,
Down the chimney came Wenger with a leap and a bound.
He was dressed in a hoody, track suit and trainers,
An outfit that would have had Phil Brown in retainers;
A bundle of young players he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
Yet words flowed from his lips like a fine bordeaux;
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
Arsenal’s very own, 6 foot tall, Alsatian elf!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon let me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Searching Europe for players; disregarding the jerks,
Laying his finger on the side of his nose,
He gave me a nod, that said “Arsene Knows.”
Then sprang to his feet, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
He hadn’t filled my stocking nor left anything under the tree,
As quickly as he’d arrived it seems he was forced to flee.
Perhaps he spotted the player, perhaps he’s still looking,
Irregardless of either, I know he’s got something cooking.
Because I heard him exclaim, as he plunged into the night,
“Stop worrying you Goonahs, there are trophies in sight!”