’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the town,
Not a greenhead was buzzing, not one could be found.
The traps stood in place by the homes with great care,
In hopes that sweet silence would blanket the air.

Holgaters were nestled, snug in their beds,
While visions of calm nights danced in their heads.
And Tom in his workshop, with tools he held tight,
Had crafted new traps that now brought such delight.

December 4, 2024