But believe me (or don't), for me this was an original idea. The existence of cousin-parodies only proves that some ideas are too fertile to ignore by such great (or silly) minds as ours!)
The Stardate Before Christmas
copyright 2018 © by Mark Alfred
’Twas the stardate ’fore Christmas, and all through the
shipple,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a tribble;
The boots were all stacked by the bulkheads with care
In the hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.
The recroom was trimmed in a Christmassy way,
And bright holly was draped round the viewscreen display.
Every hallway had echoed with carols of cheer
And the punchbowl stayed full at this time of the year.
Now the crewmen were nestled, some two in a bed,
While visions of bonuses danced in their heads.
And McCoy in his sickbay, and Spock on his rock,
Had tucked themselves in to snore right through the clock,
When from the transporter room came such a clatter
I dashed down to D Deck to find out the matter.
And who to my wondering eyes should beam in?
Harry Mudd on a sleigh, piled with gifts to the chin!
Sure, his eyes beamed with friendship and holiday mood –
But I felt in my heart he was up to no good.
More rapid than phasers, my anger it came;
I thundered, I shouted, I called him foul names:
“You sneak thief! you shyster! you cutpurse! you liar!
I’d love to parboil you above a slow fire!
I’d have you strung up from the highest high gibbet –
So beam away, beam away!
Right now, this minute!”
But then, in a twinkling, he pulled a device
That froze me unmoving, as solid as ice.
I could twitch not one muscle; I yelped not one yelp.
“Ah, Kirk-boy!” Mudd chuckled. “I’d hoped for some help.”
His eyes, how they glimmered! His moustache, how droll!
Yet I moved not a limb; just my eyes gave a roll
As his weapon took over. I picked up each gift,
And followed him, slavelike, to each turbolift.
I walked like a puppet, but still I could grieve
At whatever mad deviltry hid up his sleeve.
Yet we stopped at each cabin. He pulled out a package,
And labeled it, checking each wrapping for breakage.
There were Q-tips for Chekov, a sabre for Sulu,
For Scotty, a jug of scotch – no, make it two.
For Uhura, a nightie; for Spock, an earmuff;
For McCoy, a new medkit (will one be enough?).
So on through the ship.
As my burdens grew lighter,
The smile on Mudd’s face grew yet brighter and brighter.
We came back to the D Deck at breaking of day,
And he ended my trance, and he backed quick away.
“All right, tell the truth!” I burst out in a fury.
He held up a hand and said, “Jim-boy, don’t worry.
A rascal I may be – today, don’t you fear –
You have no monopoly on Christmas cheer!”
So I stood there quite speechless, stock-still in my track.
Mudd had caught me off-guard – I could not answer back
As he passed me to work the transporter console,
And he gave me a nod as he set the control.
He sprang to his sled with a wave and a whistle,
And away he was beamed like the down of a thistle.
But he heard me exclaim through the transporter whine,
“Harry Mudd, Merry Christmas! But just wait ’til next time!”
Merry Christmas to all! See you next Monday.
