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‘Twas the night before the Winter Sale, when all through the house.
Not a gamer was stirring, not even his mouse;
The LEDs were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. GabeN soon would be there;

The master race children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of discounts danced in their heads;

And mamma in her Steam T-shirt, and I in my Half Life 3 cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter sale's nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the PC I flew like a flash.
Opened the security camera program, and looked at the cache.
The glow of the LEDs on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my glorious eyes should appear,
But a miniature graphics card sleigh, and eight motherboard reindeer,
With a large glorious driver, so lively yet so heavily laden,
I knew in a moment it must be St. GabeN.
Faster than an overclocked CPU his coursers they came on command,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by brand;
“Now, Gigabyte! now, Asus! now, ASRock and MSI!
On, Zotac! on, EVGA! on, XFX and Sapphire!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all! ”
As uniformed peasants that before the PC Master Race fly,
When they meet with the facts, and stick to developer lies;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Games, and St. GabeN too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little PCB hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. GabeN came with a bound.
He was dressed all in spandex, from his head to his foot,
And his long glorious flowing hair was untouched by the ashes and soot;
A bundle of games he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how glorious! His dimples, how glary!
His cheeks were like red LEDs, his nose like mx cherries!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow
And the beard of his chin was as white as Skyrim's snow;
The image of a valve he held tight in his teeth,
And the steam it encircled his head like a RAM wreath;
He had a broad face and a glorious round belly, That shook violently when he laughed, just like a peasant when he is jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old man,
And I cryed with happiness when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know that PC gaming is not dead.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And emptied all the wallets; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his graphics card sleigh, to his team gave a jolt,
And away they all flew like the striking of a bolt,
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Steam Sales to all, and to all a good-night.”


{I didn't make this }