'Twas the night before Christmas and all of the Feds, Had gone home to their families and were tucked up in bed. Fox Mulder was stirring, he'd be up for a while, With high hopes that Santa would bring him an X-File.
Scully was busy with scalpel and corpse, Another autopsy, death by some strange force. Krychek was plotting, he'd come up with a winner, And was certain that shortly he'd undermine Skinner.
Cancerman smoked, he was quite without care, As he blew out blue rings of smoke into the air. The Lone Gunman, all three, were at work, never slacking, Tapping some modems and busily hacking.
Mulder drew back the blinds, a strange sight met his eyes, A sleigh drawn by reindeer was traversing the skies. He'd expected a spaceship full of men thin and gray, Not a white-bearded man at the helm of a sleigh.
Scully's eyes were glazed over, fingers nimble and lean, From wielding a scalpel and reading a screen, When Mulder walked in with a corpse clad in red, Having shot down the reindeer that propelled the sled.
She spoke not a word but went straight to work, "Mulder - it's proof, you great stupid jerk. Proof that Santa existed, I've no need for guessing, That you've killed Christmas with your silly obsession!"
She pulled back the red coat and with scalpel incised, Soon all Santa's secrets were revealed to her eyes, "The cadaver before me is an elderly male, Overweight, heart-condition, hair and beard snowy-pale.
Time of death: around midnight. Last meal: a mince pie. Cause of death: I believe that he fell from the sky. There are some signs that he injured his back, Probably hauling around a large sack."
Post mortem completed, she said with some ire, "We'd better dispose of this in the fire, And in the FBI basement, labyrinthine and dark, I'll hide the Santa autopsy in a file unmarked."
