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T'was the
night before Christmas and all through the casino,
no one was
working except Frank Marino.
The baccarat
dealers had a coma-like stare,
all praying
the Japanese soon would be there.
The tourists
from Fresno were snug in their beds,
while visions
of showgirls danced in their heads.
Celine was at
Caesars, at the Mirage Danny Gans,
while foxes at
poolside worked on their tans.
The rodeo was
over, the marathon too,
and locals
were feeling a little bit blue.
When all of a
sudden I awoke with a jerk,
to discover
that many a star was out of work.
I immediately
called Robert Goulet,
and suggested
he call himself Cirque du Soleil.
The weather
turned frosty, but as we've been told,
it's not quite
so bad 'cause it's a dry cold.
Then up in
Summerlin I heard all this noise,
I thought it
was children unwrapping their toys.
I ran to the
window to check out the din,
and there was
our Mayor with a bottle of gin.
On Dino, on
Sammy, on Frank, Elvis too,
these legends
are better than anyone knew.
Now our town
is flooded with impressionists instead,
'cause
tourists will pay to see people long dead.
Now up on the
roof I heard, it's no doubt,
the sound of
my A/C compressor go out.
I knew that
this Christmas would not be my best,
and now I was
catching a cold in my chest.
No Santa would
slide down my chimney, alas,
'cause
building codes dictate I have to have gas.
No snowmen, no
sleigh rides and yet I'll not rant,
I didn't build
my house near a sewage treatment plant.
And yet it's
good friends who make everything right,
so Happy
Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
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