12/24/2025
’Twas the night before Christmas, at the scrap yard so still,
Not a loader was stirring, not even a drill.
The copper was stacked and the steel set just right,
In hopes that Saint Nickel would stop by that night.
The workers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of aluminum danced in their heads.
And I in my hard hat, and gloves by the door,
Had just settled in after weighing one more.
When out by the scale there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my truck to see what was the matter.
Away to the yard gate I flew like a flash,
Past bins full of brass and a pile of clean trash.
The moon on the gleam of old stainless steel bright,
Gave a luster of silver to the yard that night.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a sleigh made of scrap and eight forklifts in gear.
With a jolly old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be Saint Nick.
More rapid than loaders his forklifts they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now Copper! Now Tin! Now Steel and Aluminum!
On Brass! On Wire! On Motors—maximum!
To the top of the pile! To the edge of the wall!
Now recycle! Recycle! Recycle it all!”
He sprang from his sleigh, boots dusty with rust,
With a sack full of treasures reclaimed from the dust.
He smiled as he worked, what a wonderful sight,
Turning old into new in the soft Christmas light.
He tipped me a nod and went back to his sleigh,
“Remember,” he said, “don’t throw value away.
Scrap metal’s a gift, not junk to dismiss—
Recycle it wisely, and you won’t miss.”
And I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight,
“Happy scrapping to all, and to all a good night!”
