Author's Note: Well, look who lives. I actually wrote this last year for the NML, but never got around to posting it here…it's just a bit of fluff, but I hope you enjoy. Reviews are always coveted.
Disclaimer: None of the characters in this poem are mine. They are Disney's. I am using them without permission. No copyright infringement intended. No money was made.
The NEWSIES Night Before Christmas
By Flare
'Twas the night before Christmas,
Duane Street Lodging House
Not a newsie was stirring
Nor flea, tick, or louse
By the fire escape, foul old socks hung with care
To dissolve the aromas with a bit of fresh air
The newsies were shivering, cold in their bunks
Their cards and cigars hid away in their trunks
They were pondering something their visitor said
And his bitter scorn weighed on their young hearts like lead
It was worse than the hunger, and worse than the cold:
"Fer da newsies, what meanin' does Christmas time hold?"
But finally, after they'd pondered and wept
Twenty-nine newsies uneasily slept
When there came from the fire escape such a clatter,
Spot sprang from his bunk to see what was the matter
Away to the window he flew with his cane
And pushed out the glass in the loose windowpane
The smog-shadowed moon on the dirty grey snow
Gave off just enough light in the darkness to show
The distinctively rickety, spindly shape
Of a ladder that leaned on the fire escape
And, scaling the ladder, so quick for his years
Was old Mr. Kloppman, ignoring all fears
More rapid than eagles, his hands grasped each rung
Till he saw the long string where the stockings all hung:
"Here, Cowboy! Here, Racetrack! Here, Blink, Mush, and Crutchy!
Here, Snoddy! Here, Swifty! Here, Bumlets and Dutchy!
Here your dreams are fulfilled! Here your wishes come true!
I have money, and candy, and presents for you!"
As a newsie, though tired from the work of the day
Will race back to the lodging house, home now to stay
So this man, though quite weary, for late was the night
Pulled himself up the ladder with all of his might
And the spy at the window flinched, hearing the moans
As arthritis pained all of the poor old man's bones
But, keeping his eyes from the faraway ground
To the fire escape Kloppman came with a bound
His white hair was tangled, his wise face was lined
His coat, it was tattered, but his eyes, they were kind
And under his arm, for his house full of boys
Bulged a patched, ragged bundle of small, modest toys
The cold--how he shivered--his clothing, how dirty!
His gifts, they were few, and the stockings were thirty
His scarf he wore not, but so brightly he smiled
For it lay in the bundle for one lucky child
His spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose,
And his cheeks flushed with cold, each as red as a rose
His form was too thin, for his bread and his fruits
Went to Tumbler and Slider, Snipeshooter and Boots
And when the mighty Spot Conlon beheld him outside,
He dropped all bravado, and broke down and cried
But then old Kloppman's gaze, ever stern and precise
Bade him not to shed tears for this great sacrifice
He turned then to the socks, disregarding the lad
And he cheerfully filled them with all that he had
He gave a brief nod to his witness, and then
The top rung of the ladder he mounted again
And he swiftly descended, and vanished from sight
Down into the deep snow, and the dark winter night
And the leader of Brooklyn who watched from above
Knew that even for newsies, there is Christmas, and love.