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'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the casino,
no one was working except Frank Marino.
The baccarat dealers had a coma-like stare,
all praying the Japanese soon would be there.
The tourists from Fresno were snug in their beds,
while visions of showgirls danced in their heads.
Celine was at Caesars, at the Mirage Danny Gans,
while foxes at poolside worked on their tans.
The rodeo was over, the marathon too,
and locals were feeling a little bit blue.
When all of a sudden I awoke with a jerk,
to discover that many a star was out of work.
I
immediately called Robert Goulet,
and suggested he call himself Cirque du Soleil.
The weather turned frosty, but as we've been told,
it's not quite so bad 'cause it's a dry cold.
Then up in Summerlin I heard all this noise,
I
thought it was children unwrapping their toys.
I
ran to the window to check out the din,
and there was our Mayor with a bottle of gin.
On Dino, on Sammy, on Frank, Elvis too,
these legends are better than anyone knew.
Now our town is flooded with impressionists instead,
'cause tourists will pay to see people long dead.
Now up on the roof I heard, it's no doubt,
the sound of my A/C compressor go out.
I
knew that this Christmas would not be my best,
and now I was catching a cold in my chest.
No Santa would slide down my chimney, alas,
'cause building codes dictate I have to have gas.
No snowmen, no sleigh rides and yet I'll not rant,
I
didn't build my house near a sewage treatment plant.
And yet it's good friends who make everything right,
so Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
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