‘Twas the weekend before Christmas when all over the ski hill,
The sound of snow guns could be heard, so the trails they would be filled.
Macker sat high on his groomer laying out carpets of white.
While Laz on his snowplow made sure no cars would have a fright.
Because already in December the snow had come aplenty,
And so far the number of skiers might have been only one hundred and twenty.
So, the fine folks at Platty sent out a call:
On skiers, on snowboarders, on shredders – come one and all.
More rapid than eagles they did respond.
They’ve started coming from further and further, from far beyond–
Hearing rumors of tree skiing and fine, fine terrain
Plus, kind people and lift lines that are not a strain.
The hill it is open, and Riley has poached his own secret stash
But hurry, that powder might go fast.
Because I saw Santa head for the top of the Block
Crying out, This my friends, I will rock.
With his fat skis on, a pair of Rossi S7s
This run, he said, is my own slice of heaven
But I heard him exclaim, ere he skied out of sight.
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”