The Night Before Harlock's Christmas
'Twas the night before Christmas, aboard the good ship, Arcadia
No one was stirring, not Mimee, Miss Kei or even Doc Thea;
Worn boots were at bedside, all ready to wear,
In hope of a full night's rest, no urgent Red Flares.
The crew was abed, all snug 'twixt their covers,
While sights of new horizons made sleepy eyes flutter.
While Harlock sat writing, dressed in a red Christmas hat,
Scribing the day log, preparing to go and take a long nap.
When above the bulkhead there came a loud clatter,
He sprang to his feet, alerted to attend to that matter!
He flew to the observation dome to see what was wrong,
Before issuing his strident Red Signal alarm.
A nebulae beauty, spread before his tired eye(s)
Gave rise to a sight as bright as sunrise.
When before his wondering eye(s) did appear,
A huge red Space Ornament, powered by eight mechanical deer!
As he rubbed his tired eye(s), disbelieving the sight,
A old bearded pilot appeared; quick and surprisingly light
Harlock stood confounded; St Nicholas legends 'fore in his mind,
His ears heard whistling, not quite what you'd think to find!
"Now Dancer, now Dancer, now Prancer and Vixen,
On, Comet, on Cupid, on Dunder and Blitzen!"
As he somehow (in vacuum!) heard the old man call;
"To the top of the ship, below the bridge, the top of the wall!
Dash away, Dash away, Dash away all!"
As before solar winds did the odd red, white and green ship nimbly fly,
Mounting Arcadia's main forecastle midst wild stormy space sky.
Agape, Harlock spied on as they arose up, up to the roof,
Mechanical prancing and pawing of each powered deer's hoof.
Harlock whirled around and ran down to the Atrium below,
Seven stories he descended, before cock's crow,
Ran into the Atrium in time to see a magical chimney appear
and from its smoky depths a man dressed in red came near.
The little man fell out of the new chimney in a bound,
Before the Captain could quite turn around.
The man was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot
Even his EVA Helmet was shaped and covered in soot!
A shouldered large sack came off of his ample wide back
Looking like a space tinker opening up his repair pack.
Bemused, Harlock studied his legendary, large and colorful guest,
Noted twinkling eyes, red trousers, ermine coat and brocade vest.
His face was round, rosy cheeks and cherry red nose,
An amused little mouth, drawn up like cupid's bow;
A snowy white mustache and long silky beard completed the look,
Just out of a children's ancient Christmas story book.
His face was round, and so was his ample large belly,
So when he laughed at Harlock's bemused look, he shook like jelly.
So chubby and plump, an oddity 'fore gene engineering,
That Harlock smiled, in spite of himself; quite endearing.
The jolly ol' Elf winked his eye and twisted his head,
Helping Harlock to know he had no bad things to dread.
He took out an old pipe, fired it up, then clamped 'tween his teeth,
The smoke curled round his head like a Christmas wreath.
He spoke no words, springing down the halls; gifts to bequeath.
In and out of rooms lightly and rapidly he flit,
Filling bedside boots with gifts double time quick.
When he'd finished he returned to the atrium's dome,
Nodded to Harlock, letting him know he'd no more roam.
He set down his sack, drew out a present one last time,
Set it in Harlock's shocked arms, winked, then turning on a dime,
He laid his red gloved finger aside of his rosy red nose,
Preparing to go up the chimney again, he arose.
The chimney vanished before Harlock's astounded eye(s);
The Elf sprang back into his strange new space going sleigh,
Then closed the odd tree shaped hatch; prepared to fly,
After whistling to the team to rise in a modern way.
And away he flew quickly, quiet as they had come
To where else they'd go, or where they were from.
But Harlock heard, to his surprised delight,
"Happy Christmas, dear Harlock, and have a good night!"
Merry Christmas to all! It is about time that Harlock got a gift, don't you think? I do!
Anyway, here's my Harlock version of the old classic poem written by Clement Clarke Moore (1779-1863), The Night Before Christmas.
Enjoy, and yes, I had LOTS of fun writing this one! Hope it translates reasonably to my French speaking friends. Joyeux Noel!