‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through SPACLand
Not a creature was stirring, not even Chardan;
The suit jackets were all hung by the desk chairs with care,
In hopes that a deal soon would be there;
The attorneys were nestled all snug in their chairs;
While visions of bonuses danced in their heads;
And my laptop in its sleeve, and I in my SPACInsider cap,
Had just settled my brain for a long winter’s nap,
When out on sixth avenue, there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my desk to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the blinds and threw open the latch.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a lustre to the food carts cooking below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a miniature briefcase and eight tiny MDs,
With a little old dealmaker so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he must be St. SPAC.
More rapid than redemptions, his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Hackel! now, Kaufman! now Batalion and Schachter!
On, Fixmer! on, Pappas! on, Stabinsky and Ottensoser!
To the top of the market! to the top of the league tables!
Now model away! Model away! Model away all!”
As IPOs that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with a target, mount to the sky;
So up to the conference room, the coursers they flew
With a black car full of spreadsheets, and St. SPACalaus too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard through the wall,
The murmuring and pacing and each little “Peer group et al.”
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the elevator St. SPACalaus came with a bound.
He was dressed all in pinstripes, from his head to his feet,
And his clothes were all rumpled with plane tickets and receipts;
A bundle of proxies he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a messenger just opening his backpack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how wicked!
His cheeks were like dollar signs, his nose like a ticket!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the cover of his deal deck was as white as the snow;
The stump of a cigar he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
His smile had a poker face and a little round belly
That shook when he negotiated, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was tired and plump, a right cranky old MD,
And the buy side still gave him anxiety;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the proxies; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, down the elevator he dove;
He sprang to his black car, to his team gave a shout,
And away they all flew like Polar said, “Crescent term or I’m out!”…
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of the back—
“Happy SPACmas to all, and to all a good SPAC!”