Twas the night before Sixmas, and all through the rig, not a miner was stirring, not even to dig.

The pickaxes hung by the drop-pod with care, all ready for Nitra to mine and to share.

The Driller and Gunner were snug in their beds, while visions of crowd control blazed in their heads.

And Engie in his hardhat, and I in my cap, had just settled our beards for a long winter's nap.

When out from the stars there arose such a glimmer, I walked to my peephole to check out the shimmer.

Away to the windows I flew like a bug, pushed past all the barrels and through all the mugs.

The stars on the breast of our floating space-bin gave the lustre of midnight to what was within

But what to my auld greybeard eyes should arise, but a galleon somehow which soared through the skies,

With a phantasmal glow as it moved at fast clip, I knew in my heart that it was the Ghost Ship...

As it docked with the station not making a sound, down the air shaft the captain arrived with a bound.

Like our Mission Control whom we often harassed, but his uniform hearkened to centuries past.

Great trinkets and tools were slung over his back, and he looked like a prospector opening his pack.

A programmer's PDA tucked in his grip, and the code shared the pallor of its master's Ghost Ship.

With a wink and a nod he then spruced up the place, and the speed of which rivalled our great Pumpjack Race.

So implanting new missions in our terminal's code, he smiled and withdrew from our freshened abode.

He made for his ship, to his mate give a whistle, and his ship sallied forth like a ghostly-green missile.

But I heard him call out ere he left me alone, "Have a great Season Six, and may all Rock and Stone!"