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Twas the night before CM-mas and all through the bunker not a 'truppen was stirring they were all down and hunkered The frags were all hung by the rifles with care In hopes that Santa Steve soon would be there The 'truppen a snoring and dreaming away of the hookers they'd met, on leave last May When out in the minefield there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bunk, my skivvies all tattered. Away to the gun sites I flew like a plane, pulled back the bolt and steadied my aim. When from mod weary eyes I spied from afar, Some northern Maine dude with a brain in a jar, Santa Steve! I shouted with excitement and glee but in response, just some bitching about TO&E On Stragglers, on Sicherungs, Luftwaffe and Herr on Jagers and Gebirs, and others more rare He droned on and on as the brain kept a coding and I knew deep inside this was no normal foreboding For once in a while a reference to Syria and with that little gem I was sent to hysteria For amidst all that heavy WWII talking Toward Shock Force 2 I knew he was walking Patiently on the desert I'd waited and soon it'd be real and my lust would be sated Back to the sand! Nato, Uncons and pals but with 4.0 flare and friggin' hit decals! My head filled with war and the toys that it brings I was hoping I'd see it before G**D*** spring! Then brain in arm, he turned toward the west to continue ever onward the Combat Mission quest Teeth clenched and jaw set against the snowy wind he trudge into the night, a phantom again And as he passed by the bunker and out of our zone I chewed on the annual Christmas bone. Merry Christmas, fellas! Mord.