I anxiously scanned the propagation forecast,
Wondering if they would be good at last,
Soon it would be time to grab the mic and shout,
For the day was at hand, there was no doubt.

I tried to remain calm as I scanned the bands,
Hoping that St. Propnick would soon be here,
Bringing me great signals from far-off lands,
Destined to make me a contester without peer.

The rest of the multi-multi team, all wide-eyed,
'Round the shack they scurried,
Checking all connections twice, tuning thrice,
Taming that SWR to call the worried.

With a final spin of the dial, I leaned back in my chair,
Through my mind danced dreams of rare DX,
I smiled slyly when from mind an image emerged,
Of me deftly the BV5, the HS0, and the VS6.

With a sigh I arose and headed for the stairs,
A hearty meal of cold pizza, doodles, and chips did await,
One last look around the room to see all was right,
I nodded in relief that the anticipation would soon abate.

All of a sudden there arose such a clatter,
I flew up the stairs to see what was the matter,
From the kitchen came gasps of surprise and glee,
All the more reason I wondered who could it be.

I soon discovered the source of the commotion:
There, in all his radiant, sun-spotted splendor,
Decked in IRCs the world over, stood Ol' St. Propnick,
Bringing good predictions of propagation, I wonder?

What a sight he was to behold,
From every pocket dangled PL-259s, Type-Ns, and BNCs,
With a laugh like auroral flutter, he tossed his sack and hollered,
"Gather 'round, me, o' frenzied contesters, please!"

Nary a one of us could utter a word,
When St. Propnick from his sack did magically produce,
A brand-new FT-1000MP for Bruce,
Still in awe, he reached in, and, for me, out came a Bird.

He bolted upright, tweaking his lightning-arrestor nose,
Suddenly, the sky glowed like a solar flare,
Out the window, our jaws dropped at the sight:
Towers, beams, and beverages stood in the glare.

To the heavens reached the steel trees,
Adorned this contest season with elements galore,
All neatly stacked, 4/4/4/4, 5/5/5/5, and more,
By prop-pitch turned, ne'er to freeze.

St. Propnick raised his hands and began to turn,
Faster and faster, the room spun before us all,
He drew in his hands in a thunderous, head-over-heels clap,
And shouted, "Get ready, boys, to make that first call!"

The clock on the wall said 1 minute to contest start,
In an inkling, St. Propnick had fast-forwarded time,
Sensing an explosion, we dashed to our chairs and donned headsets,
Ready to endlessly shout our own silly rhyme.

In a voice 40 over S9, St. Propnick boomed,
"On Bruce, on Rex, Ray, Ed, Jeff, and Shane,
Find a spot, run, search and pounce,
Show the world you have GAIN!"

Suddenly, St. Propnick disappeared in a flash,
A roar of voices announced the appointed hour,
To the mics we flew in a mad dash,
Work 'em, work 'em; we have the power!

As I tuned the bands, a faint sound did I hear,
Tired, I am said I; still, the sound did grow,
Till at last I discerned, "Ho ho ho!
NARC has won 4 years in a row!"