T’was three weeks before Christmas, when all through the Ath, a thousand sat toiling over English and Math—browser tabs open to things they daren’t mention, in hopes their professors would grant them extensions.
Their spent heads were hung, dangling down from their necks, in thought of their lives, which they assumed utter wrecks. When on the Great Lawn, there arose such a clatter, they sprung from their desks to see who the hell interrupted quiet hours.
Away to the windows, they shot in a flash, tripped over each other in quite a mad dash. When, what to their wondering eyes should appear, but a secondhand Chevy and no reindeer. They all pushed and they shoved to see this great cause, and there on the lawn stood old Varner Claus.