‘Twas the night before Juneathon, when all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The shorts, top and socks, were set out with care,
In preparation that Juneathon would soon be here.
The participants were nestled all snug in their beds,
While completion of Juneathon danced in their heads,
With Garmin on the side and the consideration of a cap,
With 30 days to run we’d settled for a nap.
When out on the drive there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I went with a crash,
Tore open the curtains and flew in a flash,
The moon on the breast of the newly damp street,
Gave a lustre of midday and a strange smell of feet.
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a kitted out ghost who did bring me to fear.
Wearing a pair of Nike trainers I knew he’d be quick,
I thought to myself it looks a bit like St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his legs they did move,
And he whistled and shouted, ‘I have nothing to prove!’
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall,
This crazy ghost thing was acting the fool.
And then, on the roof, a noise I didn’t like,
The prancing and pawing of each little Nike.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney this weird thing came with a bound.
He was dressed in Adidas, from his head to his foot,
And his kit were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, he was pissed-up on sherry!
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, because he’d ate too much jelly.
He was chubby and plump, not a running elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Fifteen burpees, then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his feet and ran off with a whistle,
And away he did sprint like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he ran through the street-
‘Juneathon, it’s difficult – get out the Deep Heat!’