‘Twas the night before deadline, when all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even Ward-Prowse;
Our teams had been tinkered with the greatest of care,
In hopes that St. Cricket Score soon would be there;
All the lights were switched off at FPL Towers, 
The Dead Zone was quiet, no comments for hours;
Even Sam in her Spurs kit and Az of Blackbox,
Had pressed pause on their banter (this was quite a shock);
When into this idyll there came such a clatter,
I opened an eye to see what was the matter!
My mobile’d gone mad, its screen swarming with notes,
With each one proclaiming the site had new posts!
Who’s up at this hour, why would FFS beckon?
Why, ‘twas arvo in Aus! (In some parts, I reckon?)
The scene became clear: I’d dozed off on the couch,
And under my head there lay something hard, ouch!
Lifting my face from my laptop, I thought, 
I couldn’t have typed in my slumber — or not!
I flew to the website, my fingers frenetic,
’Twas as I feared, I’d been waxing poetic!
Thank goodness most comments felt festive enough,
But dear me, one critic had got rather gruff;
“Your somniloquy, mate, put me round the bend,
Now where is the Scout Squad on which we depend?!”
(As most of the Scouts were still tucked up in bed,
‘Twould post presently, there was nothing to dread;)
Soon Europe had chimed in, and Canada too!
More rapid than Özil, the comments they flew;
And as morning sped west like St. Nick and his sleigh,
A jolly mood reigned, there was football to-day!
Whether it’s Moose Jaw, Wallaroo or Great Busby,
You’re dreaming of points in, or watching the rugby,
It’s past time for verses of cloven-hoofed beasts,
Of bearded old Nick, and Yuletide feasts;
Time to wrap up this ramble, no further ado,
Happy Christmas to all, and green arrows to you!