T’was the night before Christmas, all windy and wet
Almost seven-thirty, and I wasn’t home yet.
I called the office on my truck radio
At last, it was ending, just two names to go.
I’ll wrap this up quickly and then head for the farm
Where the family is waiting with food and drink warm.
The Smith’s took 150, I pumped it with ease,
Now hurry to the last one; it’s starting to freeze.
The Jones’ tank is an old one and just my luck.
When I get the gas in there, the damn fill valve stuck.
Lost my plastic hammer, so I picked up a rock,
Then got it shut off with a good solid knock.
I headed for the office to wrap up the day,
A man flagged me down for motor fuel on the way.
When I parked in the drive, the clock was past eight,
The callbook is empty, all done, this is great!
At home was the family; the table was set.
I changed from my work clothes, dirty and wet.
The house was so cheery – decorated and bright,
There would be much laughter and joy here this night.
I was now ready, fresh bathed, and dressed.
We gathered at the table; a fine meal was blessed.
A sugar-cured ham I started to slice,
I answered the phone as the bell sounded twice.
“Sorry to bother you, especially tonight,
But the oven is off, and I can’t make it light.”
“I’ll be right over,” I said with forced cheer,
Then made my excuses to my family dear.
Just one hour later, the oven was right,
Now back to my family for my Christmas night.
My warmed-over dinner I gulped down with zeal,
Again, the phone rang at the end of the meal.
“Sir, I am sorry, I know it’s late at night,
But I need to fill my bottle for my Coleman light.”
It was back to the office for the five-gallon fill,
He paid for the purchase with a five-dollar bill.
“Used to cost me two dollars,” he said solemn and dry,
“Now you charge me five, I think that’s too high.”
I thanked the man kindly and bit my lip tight.
The clock in the office read almost midnight.
Cold, tired, and weary, I opened the door,
Everyone was in bed, so I crept cross the floor.
My pillow was soft and deep sleep came at last.
Must have been 2:30 when my wife shook my arm,
“Sorry to wake you honey, but the house is not warm.”
I went to the furnace; the pilot was out.
Then went to the kitchen, I wanted to shout!
I turned on a burner and discovered alas!
I’ve been so busy, I let myself run out of gas.
This poem is reprinted with permission and originally was published by the North Carolina Propane Gas Association.
