Off to India, but here’s a parting gift; enjoy!

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through la casa
All the creatures were stirring, even stuffed Mufasa
For on vacation in Spain, we were knocked to our knees
By a post from the blog of Breaking News: El País.

Wikileaks was heralding their biggest scoop yet,
It made all the kids here scream, cry, and fret
“Santa Fired!” it blared, in the English edition;
Surely now Assange would be tried and hung for sedition.

The cables were rumors, though they had disclosed
That Santa’s Elf Workshop had just been foreclosed!
But could this reporting be some work of fiction,
How could B of A have proper jurisdiction?

Even so, we worried, “Would our gifts be coming?”
Tried to calm the kids, with lullaby humming.
Yet we needed Santa; the situation was dire.
If the kids woke to no gifts, it’d be our funeral pyre.

When from el camino, came thunderous applause
I put down my cocoa to discover the cause.
We heard from the distance, what sounded to me
Like cries to eight reindeer, but how could this be?

And as the voice drew near, my logic was spent
Since when did St. Nick have a Catalan accent?
Then it hit me: “How awesome!” Like out of a dream:
Santa’s crew was replaced by my favorite team!

“Now Pedro! Now Villa! Onward Dani Alves!
Go Pique! Go Puyol! On Victor Valdes!”
And in Rudolph’s place, in front of them all
Stood Lionel Messi, his foot on the ball.

For once, though, Lionel wasn’t trying to score
He was handing out presents right inside of our door!
Yes, here was team Barca, in their Unicef shirts
Saving Christmas for all: adults, teens, and squirts.

Then Coach Pep appeared, his face covered in soot
“Could it be?!” I exclaimed, “you gave Santa the boot?”
“Hardly” he replied, with his famous wry smile.
“Papers never speak truth, not by a meter nor mile.”

“Word of our records had reached St. Nick’s one good ear:
Thirty-two goals unanswered, six trophies a year.
So he asked for our help and we happ’ly obliged
Though with the condition that we miss just one rhyme.

Now we’ve crisscrossed the globe, hit every spot on the grid.”
Well that sparked a question: “Even Madrid?”
“Indeed, ’tis the season to bury the hatchet.
Fandom won’t deny gifts to Tiny Tim Cratchit.”

Then Pep gathered the team with a blow of his whistle,
And they flew to the next house, as fast as a missile.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he swung left at the tree.
“Feliz Navidades to all, and next year in DC!”