'Twas the night before this, as I sat in my house.
Not a creature was stirring, save me, on the couch.
The children were napping as I basked in the glow of a green Slashdot screen, avoiding the snow.
Upon my door I heard a soft rap. I opened the door to see a brown cap.
The UPS man left a box by my door, I took it inside to see who it was for.
On the plain brown box, 'twas my name I spied. I tore off the tape to see what's inside.
Upon peeling back the flaps, it's contents were revealed.
A box covered in doodles showing a hamster and wheels.
Inside, was a CR-48 I had requested a week before.
With no warning it had shown up, mysteriously at my door.
It was curiously small, flat, and black.
I fired it up to give it a crack.
It took a snapshot of my hideous face.
Within seconds I was surfing all over the place.
I cracked a smile as I thought of the news.
I know that now I had discovered the truth.
"There is no Santa Clause!" Some may say,
But I think he works for Google these days.

Merry Christmas folks! Excuse my terrible poetry, and crimes against Clement Clarke Moore, and thank you to the generous folks at Google.