'Twas the night before Christmas and all thru the home,
Not a muscle was stirring, nor even a bone.
The tendons were quiet, the ligaments too,
Even the fascia had nothing to do.
The masseur lamented, "How will I survive,
"With no pain to inflict, how can a man thrive?
"No hamstrings to torture, no quads to endure
"The hurt of sports massage - the pain that is pure."
"No sportsmen to punish, no mothers that curse,
"No people to cry out - Stop, just take my purse!"
So a quiet befell the sports massage room
And the clinic was filled with a sense of dread gloom.
But then with a whoosh at the chimney that night,
Santa appeared in the shadowy light.
"My back it is awful, these old shoulders too,
"Please Mr Wheeler, see what you can do."
With a childish grin, I set then to work,
Using every move, massage and quirk.
How Santa did grumble, but then with delight
He jumped off the table like a young elvish sprite.
He ran to his sleigh, the reindeer a-willing,
Pulled into the sky in a move that was thrilling.
I heard him call out, as he pulled out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"