By Michael Ross
'Twas the night before Christmas, here at the North Pole,
and I feared our big deadline was a hopeless goal.
Our long lists of boys and girls, and addresses too,
were now vexing to manage — a redo overdue!
The data were buried in a mess of spreadsheets,
and the elves were crying "Help!" in emails and tweets.
They cursed and they swore when Excel crashed once more.
(So a mansion in Redmond I vowed to ignore.)
When outside the workshop there arose an odd noise,
I waddled from my old desk with more hope than poise.