Twas the night before Christmas and all through the Citi
Not a trade rumor was stirring, shit that seems such a pity
The beat writers flocked with their questions for air
In hopes that the Sandyman would have news he could share
The Mets fans were dreaming of a shortstop with pop
While visions of playoffs, they just wouldn’t stop
And Jeff in his toupee and Fred in his grave
Hadn’t the cash, lest they scrimp, scrounge, or save
When out in the chop shops there was such a clatter
Like Mo Vaughn had dropped his big old sandwich platter
Away to the Porch, I sped up like a horse
Much like Mark Teixeira, of course, of course
The tires and mufflers on the ground down below
Were blocked by a man, uniform white as snow
When, what to my wandering eye should appear
But a miniature sleigh and eight Mets standing near
With a little old driver, so lively and gray
His tactics were poor but "OH CRIPES!", did he say
The Mets players lined up and all picked up their bats
"Now Travis, Now Curtis, Now David and Juan
On Daniel and Lucas and Michael, come on!"
But who was this 8th man, the shortstop a mystery?
A guy by the name of Troy Tulowitzki
"To the top of the Porch, to the new right field wall.
Now swing away, swing away, hit bombs to fields all!"