'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a word was stirring, not even a noun;
The verbs were
In hopes that a
Franklin and Penelope were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of milk bones danced in their heads;
Willy Dunne Wooters, who couldn't care less,
Had just settled his brain for football and a nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
That Hot Young Anthony and Sweet Young Allison
Considered getting up to see what was the matter.
The Junebug had arrived.
She could be such a
Thinks she knows grammar better than ever.
She can't leave a missteak.
More rapid than eagles her curses they came,
And she whistled, and shouted, and called writers names:
"Now pronouns! Now modifiers! Now dangling participles!
Vary vocabulary! Vary sentence construction! Choose me as your editor!
To the top of the page! To the first word of the chapter!
Do it all better, or I'll kick your asses!"
A bundle of books Junebug slung on her back,
She commanded all learn track changes and clean up their acts.
Till four in the morning she edited with glee,
Kissed Frank and Penny, and dropped to her knees.
She begged God to teach grammar to all, please, please, please, please.
Then she cuddled her blanket, put down her head,
And thought of lie, lay, lay, laid.
When finally her brain rested from an existentialist bent
Then she dreamed of England, where she wishes she went.
"The Dowager Countess," she mumbles in her sleep.
Downton Abbey will belong to the Junebug.
Now no more said, Lord Grantham. Not a peep.
The Junebug wishes a Merry Christmas to all, no matter where.
She loves big and small, and her son ever so tall.
Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight, sweet prince.
She'll never tell you what Smells Like Teen Spirit means,
so give up--now--learn your em dashes, jeez.
The Chicago Manual of Style stays in its place.
No matter your transgressions, your misuse of apostrophes,
She wishes you a Happy 2016.
Now write, will you, please?