Twas the five or six days before Christmas, when all through the room / Not a mic was turned on, not even a boom. The ear pieces were hung by the desk chairs with care / In hope that Topolsky soon would be there. The cast were nestled all snug and seated / with visions of whiskey and beer soon depleted. The poem ended, oddly, with Jean-Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet. (Subsequently we gave up using rhyme zone today.