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Twas the Night Before Christmas, at 60 State Street…

With apologies to Clement Moore or to whomever was
the original author,
 that authorship having been
recently disputed by persons with nothing
 better to do.

Resemblances to any person, living or dead,
although slyly hinted at,
 are merely co-incidental,
since this is a work of some fiction.

Twas the night before Christmas, at 60 State Street,
Ad Ops was not Skyping to Spotify’s beat,
The charts of our prospects all covererd the wall,
By the picture of Grabo bald as a pool ball.

Not a keyboard was clacking, not a scroll wheel on zoom,
Only Hanakkuh toys were left in the break room,
And I, feeling more like a grizzled old toad,
Had just settled down to hack out more code.

When out in the big room there arose such a ruckus,
I tore off my headphones, got off of my tuckus,
Past Zombie, and Clown Shoes and QA I flew,
Turned left at Ric’s office and then hit the zoo.

The moon shining in over Boston’s North End,
Shone on flip cups — the Festivus pole — like a friend,
When, my eyes, tho half-blinded by screen saver glares,
Saw steam-punked seqways in flight round the chairs.

With a long faced young leader, hair curly and dark,
I knew in a moment it was some guy named Mark.
Faster than nerf darts his partners they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

“Now Apple! now, Google! RIM!, Palm!, H. T. C.!
On Moto! On Samsung! On Mister Softee!
The whole world’s gone mobile, never let the apps stall!
Now advertize! Advertize! Advertize all!”

As a blind man does stumble about in a room,
Till he falls through a door he can’t see in the gloom,
So into the break room the outriders flew,
With bags of new smartphones, and the guy named Mark too.

And then, in a twinkling, as I stood in the hall,
Heard the entourage braying and beginning to brawl,
As I drew back my head, and was turning around,
Out from the lobby Mark came with a bound.

He was dressed in a hoodie and sandals and jeans,
And he kept posting photos that he viewed on his screens,
A sack full of Androids he’d just dropped to the floor,
And another of Galaxys he’d brought from a store.

His eyes – how close focused! His iPhone kept jangling!
He talked really fast, his sentences dangling,
His droll twisted mouth let you know he was glad,
As his fingers scrolled stories, then clicked on an ad.

He kept posting to walls and clicked “Like” on all pages,
Whispered, “Get me more reach!” “Let’s target more ages!”
He had a wan face, and laughed with a snicker,
And swayed like a snake though his tongue was much quicker.

He was skinny and pale, now the richest of geeks,
And I laughed when I saw him, and his white pasty cheeks!
A wink of his eye as our fridge he now raided,
Soon gave me to know he had not become jaded.

He was spare with his words, and went straight on his quest,
Dark page posts and mobile he pushed with some zest,
Remarketed users and now FBX,
Which Dewey once said was much better than sex.

Then he sprang to his segway, and gave it a kick,
And away they all drove, their next partner to pick,
And I heard him exclaim, o’er the Post Office clock,
“Happy Christmas to all! And Nanigans you rock!”

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