The Night Before Christmas - In the Studio - Adapted by Peter Kendall Warren

T'was the night before Christmas, when all through the studio
Not an engineer was mixing, not clicking mouse.
The cables were hung by the headphones with care,
In hopes that the paychecks soon would be there.

The microphones were nestled all snug in their foam beds,
While visions of re-ribbon jobs danced in their shiny capsule-heads.
And the 2nd engineer in his ‘do-rag,' and I in my shack,
Had just plugged our tweakers in for a long winter’s track.

When out in the tracking room there arose such a flutter,
I sprang from the controol room to see what was the mutter.
Away to the window between the two crawled with a groan,
I checked all the meters and pulled up a 1K tone. 

The LED's on the racks of precious vintage gear
Gave the lustre of mid-day to the pedals below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature snake, and eight tiny telephone & telegraph cables to stow.

With a little old software driver, so slow to load and quick to frustrate,
I knew in a moment it must be the producer, ugh.
More rapid than eagles his musicians they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Jaymi! now, Jeff! now Gary,  and Alicia!
On, Bret! On, David! on, on Greg and Bill!
To the top of the Bar! to the top of the coda!
Now play away! Play away! Play away all!"

As bad lyrics were hashed and poor melodies cut,
When they meet with a laugh, and the writers were bashed.
So out of the the back door of the coursers they flew,
With their hearts full of anger for their verses were crewel

And then, in a twinkling, I heard through the speakers
The amzing skill of each little finger.
As I dreamed in my head, and was turning around,
As the writers came back in the door, realizeing that royalties were worth more than the pride within.

They were dressed all in fur, from their head to their feet,
But their reputations were tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of chips had flung on their shoulder,
And they looked like peddlers, just opening their notebooks.

The music stand lights twinkled! The producer was merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was full of tequila,
And the beard of his chin was as rested on his hands at the Neve 8088.

The stump of a light-pipe he held tight in his hands,
And the zeros and ones encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad little round microphone
That he said, "here try this instead," when he didn't like the sound.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, he said, "THAT WAS GREAT, LET'S DO IT AGAIN!"
Soon gave me to know I had much to dread

He spoke not a word, but asked me instead,
"I don't know what do you think," then turned like a jerk.
And laying his middle finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, then out the door he rose, saying, "We'll fix it in the mix."