By Ash Pryce
Twas the night before the night before Christmas, when all through the flat
Not a ghosty was scaring, no psychic claptrap
The stockings were hung (though “hanged” is quite right)
In hopes that Randi Claus would be there tonight.
The skeptics were nestled stock still in their beds,
While nightmares of quacks danced in their heads.
But Pete Harrison said “That’s just Sleep Paralysis,
Try lucid dreaming instead, that’s my analysis.”
Then out on the lawn I heard such a pound,
I sprang from the bed and feared Infrasound.
But I realised later my theory was junk
Infrasound can’t be heard and is also debunked
I looked out my window and stared out below
And what should I see struggling through snow?
Not a Climate denier, (though he was once, that’s weird)
I spied Randi Claus and his bushy white beard
He was accompanied by skeptics pulling his sleigh
And fed them with knowledge instead of with hay
“Why are they treated like reindeer?” you ask
Because fitting them all in this poem’s a task!
“Now Wiseman! Now Blackmore! Now Marsh, Swale and Stevens!
Some Comets and space shows on Brian Cox’s new season!
Now Singh,! Now Watson! Now French and on Dawkins!
You must be 18 to fly, or else we’d also have Morgan.”
A tinkering, clinkering click of the lock
And the flat door flew open and gave me a shock
I hid in my bed and pulled up the sheets
And in came Randi Claus with skeptical treats
There were new blogs for Myers, podcasts from O’Malley
A new Merseyside special taking on Psychic Sally
QED tickets and skeptical pub talks
Fringe performance and Jack of Kent’s law thoughts
Derren Brown magical shows are a winner
(even if his more recent one’s like Paul McKenna)
Teller and Penn with their Bullshit detectors
And libel reform with it’s free speech protectors
Randi filled up my stocking with sciencey toys
A wonderful gift for good girls and good boys
But if you are bad, and on his naughty list
He’ll leave you homeopathy, 30Cs of pure myth
He looked on the mantle, where I’d left Christmas scotch
He may be teetoal, but still drank down the lot
Confused I asked why as I scratched at my head
“In memory of Hitch” was all that he said
He left just as quick and as sleek as he came
And flew off in the night calling Carl Sagans name
But I heard one last thing as he left from my sight
“Happy Christmas to all, and keep up the good fight!”