Twas the night before Christmas
and all through Wyoming
no one was sleeping
loud winds were moaning

The ranchers were nestled, all snug in their beds,
wondering if the livestock on the north 40 was fed.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I racked a fresh round,
the gun cocked with a clatter.

Away to the window I shown my flashlight,
looking for movement, so I could lower my sights.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

He was trying to land on the rooftop with care,
but a gusting crosswind was blowing him everywhere.

A sudden loud thump, I heard on the roof,
the grinding and scratching of slip sliding hoofs.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

"Dear Heaven's it's windy, and desperately cold.
Not sure I would make it. I'm getting so old."

From his sack he pulled guns and an rifle rack
a horse saddle, a rope and rodeo tack.

"Off to the next ranch,
which is so very far that-a-way,
don't even look at my reindeer,
they are out of season anyway."