Twas the five or six days before Christmas, when all through the room / Not a mic was turned on, not even a boom / The ear pieces were hung by the desk chairs with care / In hope that Topolsky soon would be there / The cast were nestled all snug and seated / With visions of whiskey and beer soon depleted / The poem ended, oddly, with "Jean-Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet." / (Subsequently we gave up using RhymeZone today.)

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