A co-presentation of WNYC Studios and Night Fail presents.

You are listening to the orbiting human circus of the air. You're not going to be here. Twas the night before Christmas when all through Perry not a creature was singing not even a flea

the lights had been out in the great Eiffel Tower for the better

part of nearly one half an hour. The tap-dancing mice nest nestled snug in their beds while visions of

Camembert pranced in their heads and the janitor dozed in his janitor's cot

dreaming of radio shows and whatnot.

When down from below there arose such an uproar.

He sprang to his feet and ran straight to the back door. On to the girders he flew like a cat, peered over the edge, and he thought,

what is that? The moon shining bright on the banks of the Sen, dazzled his sleep-custed eyes,

ah, but then, what to his sleep-custed eyes did come forth?

But the great recitating platypus of the north. He usually visits the ill and infirm to cure

their afflictions and banish their germs, but why had he come? No one was sick. Was the platypus playing the part of St Nick?

The sack on his back made the janitor wonder. Was he bringing the cast and the crew Yule tied plunder?

Marching on leathery flippers he came, and he quacked and he shouted and called them by name.

Now Letitia, now Coco, now Mr.

Chenard, now Jacques, now John Cameron, you saucy old card. To the top of the

tower, to the ballroom I go. Now here I come, here I come, on with the show!

Then as fast as a diva might fly off the handle he soared like the flames of a lit Roman candle and up up the tower the platopus flew with a sack full of toys and a singing saw too.

The janitor turned and raced in like a blur to the ballroom to witness what next would occur.

As he entered and parted the red velvet drapes, he gasped when he saw the great platypus

traips onto the stage with his wallowling feet

and the janitor turned quite as white as a sheet.

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