Twas 3 nights before Christmas Eve, when all through the U.C.
Not a creature was cheering, not even Jerry.
The championship banners of yesterday were hung overhead with great care,
In hopes that young Derrick soon would be the second heir.

The Jay the Jokers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of 47 wins danced in their heads.
And Mrs. Briggs in her (never you mind), and I in my Briggs orange jersey,
Had just settled our “brains” for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the WGN there arose such a clatter from Stacey,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the big screen I flew like a flash,
Tore open Artest’s cognac and started chuggin’

The Kings were dancing over the new-crestfallen home team.
Overcame the lack lustre of the first half I see.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But the disappearance of a 35 point lead, and 7 dejected Bulls.

With a little tricky hair blow drying, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment the fault must lie with St Vince.
More rapid than vultures his haters they came,
And he cried, and muttered, and called out his players by name!

“Now Derrick! now, Joakim! now, Luol and Brad Miller!
On, John! On, Taj! On Kirk and where is Tyrus?
To the bottom of the Central! To the bottom of the Eastern Conference!
Now shoot with care! Grab down those rebounds! And don’t give the ball away!”

As the home team’s confidence erodes without a whimper,
The Bulls choke away their monstrous lead and into the history books they enter.
So up to the house-rafters the boos they cascade,
With a team full of quitters and doubters, and St Vinny too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard from the owner’s private box
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. (left that one in, just sounds too damn funny)
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down to center court, Jerry Reinsdorf came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur (uhh ditto, leavin’ that one in as well), from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with beer thrown by fans.
A bundle of season ticket refund vouchers he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a banker, just opening his briefcase.

His eyes-how they teared! his frown how sorrowful!
His cheeks were pale, his nose was snotty!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a coaching contract he held tight in his hand,
And the dark cloud encircled above his head.
He had a sad face and a little round......,
That shook when he cried, like a sad Panda!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old owner,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And handed every fan back their money, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, poof! Vinny and his head full of hair, disappeared!

He sprang to his feet, to John Paxson gave a coach’s whistle,
And released Brad Miller, most likely to Charlotte.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he exited the U.C.,
“Happy Christmas to all, see you in NY and to all a good-night!”