‘Twas the night before Mennonite Christmas, when all through the house

Not a Penner was stirring, not even Uncle Klaus;

The were all eaten, the halva was all gone,

I was lying next to Martha wearing my favourite long johns.

The were nestled all snug in one bed,

While visions of danced in their heads,

And Martha in her , and me filled with hope,

Of a quick Christmas snuggle on this long winter’s .

When out on the yard there arose such a melee,

That I sprang from the bed; “ !”

To the Loewen window I flew at a furious pace,

With Martha at my side wearing nothing but lace.

The moon lit up the scene, as I opened the curtain,

Who might it be? I sure was not certain.

When, what to my Mennonite eyes did appear,

Eight tiny church elders dressed in winter gear.

With a little old man,

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