Twas the night before MMA Christmas, when all through the TUF house
Not a flyweight was stirring, not even a Mighty Mouse.
The misspelled Reebok gloves were hung by the chimney without care,
In hopes that St. Rogan soon would be there.
The fighters were nestled all snug in their twin beds,
While money fight visions of Mayweather & McGregor danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘UFC Champions Germaine de Randamie fight kit’
And I in my ‘UFC Fanatics Branded Georges St-Pierre Black UFC 217 #AndNew Middleweight Champion Shirt’,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s soccer kick KO nap.
When out on the Octagon there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the Monster Energy stained floor to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up some EA Sports microtransaction cash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen foe
Gave the luster of yet another fight-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But an UFC announcer, and eight tiny MMA fighting reindeer.
With a little old driver, so bald but not like Hulk Hogan,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Rogan.
More rapid than CM Punk in defeat his coursers they came,
And he OMG’d, and shouted, and called them all the correct names;
“Now Stipe! now, Cormier! now, Whittaker and Woodley!
On, Ferguson! On, Namajunas! on Nunes and Dillashaw!
To the top of WME-IMG Towers! to the top of the cage-wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”
As dry heaves that before the wild Hurricane Yvel fly,
When they meet with an opponent, full mount to the sky.
So up to the tower-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of USADA testing coasters, and St. Rogan too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and punching of each little hoof.
As I drew on my fake Max Holloway mustache, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Rogan came with a bound.
He was dressed all in Onnit organic fur, from his head to his foot,
And his Reebok clothes were all tarnished with weed resin and soot.
A bundle of unsold, off market UFC Toys he had flung on his back,
And he kind of looked like a Dana White, just opening his pack.
His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how scary!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a Chinook cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like asomeone who was high as fuck,
And the grin on top of his chin was as white as a very large snow truck.
The stump of Moose meat he held tight in his teeth,
And the smell of the freshly hunted animal encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a stoned face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, Like a bowlful of Golden Corral’s endless buffet jelly!
He was kinda chubby and Fedor like, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of him staring wide-eyed at myself!
A wink of his red eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a curse word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned, smoked one without me, tbh kinda jerk.
And laying his finger inside of his nose,
And giving a fist bump, up the chimney he rose!
He sprang to his sleigh, to his fight team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all the fight fans buy UFC 219 on Fight Pass for a good-night!!!”
