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Paired with SOLTwas the night before MitchMas, and all through the chain, Not a wallet was stirring, not a single damn gain. The bags were all dumped by the ledger with care, In hopes that a rug-pull soon wouldn’t be there. The degens were nestled all wrecked in their beds, While visions of moonshots dissolved in their heads. And I in my hoodie, with one final tap, Had just settled in for a bear-market nap. When out on the Discord there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter. Away to the screen I flew like a flash, Refreshed every second—my portfolio trash. The moon on the breast of the fresh-fallen snow Gave a luster of midwit to charts down below. When what to my bloodshot eyes should appear, But a matte-black Lambo, and eight tiny reindeer— No, wait—eight tiny runners, all shilling in code, With a driver so slick, every exit he’d load. More rapid than eagles his exit liquidity came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name: “Now, Jeet! Now, Paper! Now, Rugger and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!” As dry powder that before the wild hurricane flies, When they meet with a candle, mount straight to the skies, So up to the penthouse the runners they flew, With the Lambo full of bags—and ole MITCH too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The screeching of tires and each diamond-proof hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney ole MITCH came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his drip was all tarnished with ashes and soot. A bundle of exit liq’ he had flung on his back, And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. His eyes—how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as t
