'Twas the Night before an Accountant’s Christmas

 

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house      Not a taxpayer was stirring, not even his spouse. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,      At precisely 6 and ¾ inch intervals with not an inch to spare. The dependents were nestled all snug in their beds,      While visions of child tax credits danced in our heads. And the spouse in her ‘kerchief, and I in my visor,      Had just figured our Gain from our short sale of Pfizer. When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,      I sprang from the desk to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash,      Tore open the shutters that I paid for in cash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow      Gave the lustre of lunch hour to objects below. When, what to my beady little eyes should appear,      But a fully depreciated sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer      (with a depreciable life of 7 years) With a little old driver, so lively and quick,      I knew in a moment it must be St Nick (ID #78-6455287). More rapid than IRS agents (at the heels of a taxpayer in non-compliance) his coursers they came,      And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by last name! "Now Mr. Dasher! Mr. Dancer! Mr. Prancer and Mr. Vixen!      On, Ms. Comet! Ms. Cupid! Ms. Donner and Ms. Blitzen! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!      Now Dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As gasoline prices after the wild hurricanes rise,      Causing Standard Mileage rates to soar up to the skies So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,      With the sleigh full of non-taxable gifts and Mr. Nicholas      (ID #78-6455287) too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof      Much damage being done by each little hoof. I thought to myself, Oh No!  A casualty loss!      I’ll call my insurance agent and have him talk to his boss   As I very carefully (so as not to disturb my perfectly combed hair) was turning around,      Down the chimney Mr. Nicholas (ID #78-6455287) came with a bound.   He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,      in business casual clothes tarnished with ashes and soot. A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,      And he looked like a street vendor who fails to collect sales tax.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,      But smoking’s been banned so he kept it beneath. He had a broad face and a little round belly,      That shook when he laughed, like the above-mentioned taxpayer in non-compliance while being chased by the IRS         agent! He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,      And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of my dry sense of humor that rarely thinks anything is funny! 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, (a characteristic appreciated by serious professionals such as myself.)      And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk. And laying his finger aside of his nose,      And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose! And away they all flew after he sprang to his sleigh      But ‘ere he drove out of sight, I could just hear him say, ”With other accountants you can’t be too sure,      Call Baker Sullivan Hoover, their Focus is your Future!"

 

Merry Christmas