The Red Nomex Aviator

On the night before Christmas my ship was at sea,
A big flat-top "bird farm" from the land of the free.
Cruising the ocean at "the tip of the spear",
So everyone home could sleep sound with no fear.

Flight ops had ended hours ago,
The day crew had turned in and gone down below.
Night crew was doin' their maintenance checks,
The aircrews and pilots were gettin' some rest.

The cooks in the galley were fixin' Mid-rat's,
The Air Boss and Cap'n could finally relax.
CIC called up said something's inbound,
Prob'ly the mail plane, a C-2 Greyhound.

Stand clear of the foul-line, one to recover,
"Angel" is airborne, to starboard he'll hover.
Spotters see only one red blinkin' light,
No markers on wing-tips, now somethin' ain't right.

All eyes are watching but no one believes,
What comes o'er the round-down, bold as you please.
Nine deer and a sleigh, no tail-hook or tires,
How does Paddles grade a trap with no wire?

A red Nomex flight-suit, of course gloves that match,
And S. Claus printed on his aviator patch.
Why, it's old Santa Claus wearin' goggles and leather,
With bags full of Christmas cards, presents and letters.

Don't stand there gawkin', froze in your tracks,
Give him a hand with unloadin' those sacks.
The bags are all carried to the mail room below,
And after a pre-flight, Santa's ready to go.

The cat-crew is wondering now which hold-back pin?
Santa just laughs then he's airborne again.
We didn't hear jingling bells from his sleigh,
Ol' Santa was whistling Anchors Aweigh.

Off the angle-deck, over wave-caps of white,
Even without afterburners he's soon out of sight.
We all stood there doubting what we had just seen,
But the deer left a present, smelly and green.

Over the side with all the deer turds,
Don't want them things fod'in one of our birds.
Tho' that night happened many long years ago,
Santa still travels to our ships on the foam.

(H/T to the Goat Locker).