A satirical re-telling of an age-old poem, with a galactic twist.
‘Twas the night before Star Wars, when all through the house;
We watched The Last Jedi, and started to grouch.
Movie tickets were hung on the fridge with a magnet,
In hopes the plot of Episode IX wouldn’t be stagnant;
The Younglings were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of Jar-Jar danced in their heads.
Mamma in Fett’s helmet, and I wore Jedi wrap,
Had just settled our argument—Episode VIII was crap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter!
We thought the Death Star had blown up and shattered.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
Two full moons lens-flared on the new-fallen snow;
It looked like Echo Base, back on Hoth, you know.
I thought I was drunk, but booze wasn’t a factor;
It was the Millennium Falcon and eight of the actors!
With a curly-haired driver so lively and quick,
Wait, that’s J.J. Abrams, not old St. Nick!
In the span of 12-parsecs his coursers they came,
And he whistled, shouted “cut!”, and called them by name:
“Now, Jannah! now, Zorii! Poe Damron and Kylo!
On, Chewie! on, Finn! On, Rey and Rose Tico!
To the planet, Pasaana! To the snowy peaks of Kijimi!
Hurry! Let’s film this, before Kathleen sees me!”
Do, or do not. There is no try,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the rooftop, the Falcon it flew;
With the back full of rebels, and Kylo came, too.
And then a sound, like cables chewed on by Mynocks;
Someone threw down the Falcon’s landing gear chocks.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney came J.J. and his crew with a bound.
He spoke a few words and went straight to directing,
Acknowledging, at last, TLJ needs correcting.
He knew if IX sucked, his career would be dead,
So, he tried to assure us there was nothing to dread;
“I’ll fix Rey’s origin. I’ll tell you her secrets!
Rian killed off Luke, and I just couldn’t tweak it.”
They all nodded heads. The Wookiee roared in agreement.
“We’ll fix it all, fans. Please trust us, we’ve seen it!”
Chewie covered in fur, from his head to his foot,
And he showed us his medal! That’s one thing fixed—good!
“Palpatine is back, we’ve met our Sith quota,
Just forget about Snoke, we’ve got Baby Yoda!”
Invoking “The Child”, our eyes—how they twinkled!
We’re hooked on The Mando! Now that’s a story without wrinkle!
He promised he’d fix this if we gave him a chance;
“I know what I’m doing. I went to Skywalker Ranch!”
We laughed when he said it. “You’re fully of bologna!”
“That’s what you think,” he said. “I consulted Favreau and Filoni.
So quit all your blubbering and wipe up your mucus;
I also spent a lot of time with George Lucas!”
Kylo stood in back, all dark and brooding;
We could tell by his face—the First Order would be losing.
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
He looked like a big emo Elf-on-the-Shelf.
“Hurry up, gang. Get your blue milk. Let’s go!”
And giving a nod, up the chimney they rose.
J.J. sprang to the cockpit, no movement was errant,
Damn, I forgot to ask him, just who are Rey’s parents!?
But I heard him exclaim, as they hit light speed—
“Punch it, Chewie! Let’s fix this! The fandom’s in need!”
