'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through LAX,
Frequent flyers were queuing, including PremEx;
The rollaboards were searched by Security with care,
In hopes that a corkscrew would not be there;

The F pax were nestled all snug in First Suites,
While visions of warm nuts seduced the elites;
Ma got her bump voucher and I got my upgrade,
And we logged onto FT with coupons to trade.

When out on the tarmac there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the lounge to see what was the matter.
Away to the gate I flew like a Concorde,
Wondering what was there -- did it fly in from ORD?

The moon on the spray of de-icing fluid
Gave a green luster to aircraft seen through it,
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature twin-prop with eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old pilot, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be Captain Nick.
More rapid than fighters his coursers they came,
And he radioed Ground Control and called them by name:

Now, BOEING, now AIRBUS, now FOKKER and TUPOLEV!
On JETSTREAM! On EMBRAER! On CANADAIR and ANTONOV!
Taxi Kilo Eight to One Five and hold short!
Cleared for takeoff! Wake turbulence, of course!
So on the departure vector they flew,
With the hold full of cargo, and vexing pax too.

And with an on-time arrival (thanks, schedule padding)
Came the roar of thrust reversers and a routine landing.
As I walked down the Jetway to a chorus of "Buh-bye"
Followed Captain Nicholas, no longer legal to fly.

He was dressed all in navy, from his pants to his cap,
And his arms had gold strips, impressive to look at.

His eyes how they're perfect (as the Air Force required),
His age, close to sixty -- how nearly retired!

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
Disabling lavatory detectors makes you akin to a thief.

He spoke not a word, having completed his work.
The bag handlers descended, and threw bags with a jerk.

"How far can we drop this?" the handler inquired.
"Clear down the chimney!" said his colleague, inspired.

But I heard them exclaim 'er they drove o'er the bags,
"Throw that one away... it doesn't have tags!"

Merry Christmas, FT!