THE NIGHT OF THE PARTY
’Twas the night of the party, full prep had begun,
with Enid around not much else could be done;
The tables were clothed, and the flowers arranged,
and Soul Train projected, not a thing should’ve changed.
The disco ball hung from the rafters with care,
in hopes that merry guests soon would be there.
One-by-one, two-by-two, dressed to the nines they arrived,
Trumpeters, friends and family. (The +1 game sure thrived.)
The Technology team impressed all with their dates;
they really existed, and they were all great!
It began to take off, this great celebration,
between music and food, it was all pure temptation.
Hors d’oeuvres by Joel were the best by a mile,
and Beth’s dessert spread made the whole crowd smile.
As with all Trumpet parties, it was bound to occur—
we’ll call it holiday spirit, though some may say “blur”—
The vibe slightly shifted from “cocktail” to “rager,”
the open bar’s contribution was no less than major.
Aerialists poured chilled champagne with great care,
and our inhibitions soon would no longer be there.
In the search for tequila, booze from the kitchen was lifted—
but hey, it’s the holidays, we’ll call those shots gifted.
Producers and admin all partied alike,
I even saw a mustachioed man dance. (It was Mike.)
The violinist played the funkiest tunes in the land,
alongside twerking creatives with chilled shots in-hand.
As the celebration went on, the fun only progressed,
I would say that, no doubt, this one was the best.
As the party wound down, and attendees departed,
this tipsy strategist was just getting started.
I was struck with a thought while saying farewell,
which put me on the naughty list of Papa Noel.
As it happens each year—one might call it tradition—
finding surplus champagne became my only mission.
I’m not sure why, as I always regret it,
but that sweet, bubbly nectar sure sounded splendid.
One could say I accomplished what I set out to do,
with a bottle per hand, stood the remaining crew.
We sabered and chugged every last fizzy drop,
and it wasn’t ’til then that the night came to a stop.
As we turned out the lights and called for a ride,
we each made it home thanks to Fred, our Uber guide.
I stepped out the car, stumbled to my front door,
and it was then that I heard it, just like some Christmas lore.
Was it Fred as he pulled from the corner with care,
or maybe the neighbor from his porch rocking chair?
You may call it the booze, but I know that I heard it.
It was a hearty, “Merry Christmas! Your night must’ve been lit!"