Somewhere, Clement Clarke Moore may be scoffing, but our columnist’s tone-crazy Santa brings all the goodies!

’Twas the night before New-Gear Day, when all through the house
Not a Pro Co RAT was stirring, not even a Blue Mouse;
Two microphones were hung by the 4x12 with care,
In hopes that no phase issues would ever be there;
The pedals were nestled all snug on their boards;
While visions of Sugar Drives danced in dream chords;
With my bandmates in bed, to enjoy decompression,
We’d just settled our brains from a long recording session,
When, coming from the studio, there arose such a clatter,
I sprang to the console for an EQ that’s flatter.
Away to the kit to make room for a splash,
I tightened up the snares and polished the crash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a sparkle and shine to my bluegrass banjo,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature Timmy, and the Lightspeed from Greer,
In a sleigh with a Driver so lively and thick,
I knew in a moment this was Gear St. Nick.

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