'Twas the Night Before...

My apologies to Clement Clark Moore and Henry Livingston, Jr. for, as I saw one gent put it, "butchering" the original 'Twas the Night Before Christmas poem. Until just recently, I always had understood that Moore was the original author, but some today believe that it was Livingston. So, to be fair, I'm apologizing to both. The following is only the first of five such guest adaptations I will be posting between now and Christmas Eve. Incidentally, this particular adaptation, with some minor modifications, was first written for Capital City Bass Club about 16 years ago, then reposted in January 2013.

By Jeff Fancher

'Twas the night before a bass tournament,

When all through the house,

Not an angler was sleeping, not even his spouse.

The rods were all placed, in the Skeeter with care,

In hopes that the fishing would be better than fair.

While tossing and turning, all night in my bed,

Visions of smallies danced in my head.

And Mamma in her nightie, and I in my cap,

Had my mind just on fishing, which cost me a slap.

As the counting of bass didn't help or matter,

I crept out of bed, without making a clatter.

Luckily, I was up, as I had a "brain flash,"

And searched my wife's purse, for "big fish" cash.

With money in hand, to the kitchen I go,

For a plate of li'l smokies and a mug of hot joe.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But my bass partner Lonnie, holding his gear.

It was 1 a.m., was he out of his mind?

Then I remembered, we were two of a kind.

He said he came early, to get a jump on the game,

And cursed the competition, as he called them by name:

There's Sessler, Reimers, Hobbs, the McMurrays,

Delay and Dan Johnson, they give me such worries.

They know all the spots, that catch fish with such ease,

I want to bring each one of them down to their knees.

As ducks walk on water, attempting to fly,

When bass boats race toward them, they mount to the sky.

So was my partner, stressed out and uptight,

As he worked on his gear, to get it just right.

And then, in a twinkling, it was time to head out,

We were ready for battle, more prepared than a scout.

As I walked toward Ol' Skeeter, I heard a strange sound,

And turned as my partner fell hard to the ground.

Overloaded with gear, from his head to his foot,

His fancy new bass shirt, now muddied with soot.

Three bags of snubs were scattered around,

Twelve rods lay near him, there on the ground.

We had a good laugh, then hooked up the boat,

Oh, how she sparkled, with her shiny gelcoat.

The metalflake shimmered in the pale moonlight,

With two hundred horses all rearing for flight.

Down the road we did go, trailer lights all ablaze,

I had to admire Ol' Skeet with each gaze.

My nerves were high, butterflies filled my belly,

As I bit on my nails, I could taste smelly jelly.

As we arrived at the ramp, how the water was steam'n,
The wind was dead calm, the moon still a gleam'n.
The boat slipped in smoothly, as I gave a slight tug,
My only concern was: Did I put in the plug?

With banners in place, boats rearing to fly,
Safe light was upon us, and lit up the sky.
Excitement ran through me, from my head to my toes,
When my number was called, Ol' Skeet, how she rose.

As I gave her full throttle, and held on for dear life,
She cut through the water, like the edge of a knife.

When we hit warp speed, I screamed out my plea,
"Good luck to all, just more luck for me!!!"