T'was the day before Christmas, and all through the bag,
My Titleists were ready, to be aimed at a flag.
The air on the course was frigid and raw,
With clouds full of darkness, over fairways too small.

ProVs in my pocket, were warmed in the car,
Each yearning to fly through the cold, very far.
And I in my Footjoys, gloves and a cap,
With earmuffs, big sweater, a vest and some Jack.
A swig of the bottle, a stretch of my back
I'm warmed up and ready, to give it a whack.

I look over the course, so peaceful, no sound.
Wide open and lonely, no soul to be found.

The ball on the tee, a D2 in my grip,
A check of my stance, I then give it a rip.
It darts off the tee with the speed of a light,
And lands in the fairway, a mere wedge shot in sight.

I swing with control, three-quarters at best,
the pin is so close, where the ball comes to rest.
A tap-in for birdie, a start to excite,
Move on to the next tee, I'm ready to fight.

On two, and on three, on four, and on five
The birdies and pars continue to thrive.
On six, with a seven, I hit it to eight,
not yards or feet, but inches away.

The eighth’s, up a hill, but I draw it astray,
Yet I get up and down, for par, anyway.
A five on the ninth, yet another great par,
A four-under front, my best ever so far.

The back nine continued to rival the front,
With an eagle on twelve, and no need to putt.
Yes, maybe there were, more thrills to attain,
With six more tough holes, to go in the game.

More birdies and pars, a last birdie, and then,
On to the eighteenth, under by ten!

I grab my best club and step up to the tee,
Glance out at the pin, of this long tough Par 3.
As my eyes focus in, on the flag in the middle
I catch glimpse of a man, with a beard, who's not little.

He's driving a cart, it's red with white lights
A wand in his hand, with a star, oh so bright.
He waves it ahigh, as he passes the green
And out from the clouds come white flakes of gleam.

The snow sprinkles lightly, I step up to the ball,
Then swing hard at the orb, while I try not to fall.
It lands on the green and bangs into the pin,
Falls down to the ground, spins back, and goes in.

An ace for my final hole of the day.
The first of my life, seems fitting I'd say.
On this round of my dreams, that all went my way,
I had help from a man who required no pay.

His laughter and glee, rang out through the snow
As he drove out of sight, to where God only knows.
I felt at that moment, my round was inspired,
by a force from above, and this man not-for-hire,
Who sprinkled my path, with his magic snow stick
And gave me the faith to swing through, with no hitch.

Amazed and in awe, as I walked to my car.
I added the score up, to twelve under par.
And, believe it or not, the numbers are real.
The round that I played was a full package deal.
Driver, irons, hybrids and woods,
Even my Scotty was more than just good.

I loaded my clubs in, and closed down the trunk,
Pounded my chest, I felt like a hunk.
Looked up in the sky, with an ear-to-ear grin,
The snow hit my face, and dripped off my chin.

The man with the beard on that shiny red cart,
Drove out of the clouds and passed by my heart,
With one final flick of that magical stick,
I firmly believed.... his name was Saint Nick.