Twas the Night before Christmas, with Apologies to Clement Moore

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the hospital,

Not a creature was stirring, not even a hepatologist.
The IV bags were hung by their poles with care,
In hopes that UNOS soon would be there.

The patients were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions from encephalopathy danced in their heads.
And ma in her bed, and I on the sofa,
Had just settled in for a long winter’s coma.

When out by the ER there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the couch to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering heart I should see,
But a red cooler filled with possibility.

With a little old surgeon, so lively and wise,
I knew in a moment it must be Tom Starzl.
More rapid than eagles his livers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Leber, now Lunga, now Foie and Fegato,!
On, Kimo! On Gān Zānɡ! On Jigar and Higado!
To the top of the copter pad! To the top of the wall!
Now transplant! Transplant! Transplant away all!"

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the bellies, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Livers to all, and to all a good-night!"