Casablanca: Christmas Eve in the "White House"

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through Casa,
No snow was on the ground, only warmth on "noses"
No carols could be heard, no jingles in the air,
No bells were a-ringing, jolly Saint Nick was
surely rare

Echoing in their heads, was not a reindeer-filled dream,
Nor scents of trees of pine, nor the sweet tastes of desserts of cream,
The only thought they gave, oh so far from home,
To this Western holiday, was this awful poem

From the train they came, descending upon this cosmopolitan city,
Ceded by the French, in a long-ago treaty,
Glimpsing the Atlantic, the man set upon a monkfish,
Not a tajine, but a wonderful new tasty dish

The adventure of Morocco, has been this trip,
No arid desert, a deluge and not a sip,
Wet medina walks, days of rain,
The sun peeking out, only when we're on the train

From a ferry long delayed, to a taxi stuffed to the gills,
Battling touts and false guides, became a battle of wills,
Exploring the maze of the Medina; inevitably becoming lost,
Wending round and round in circles, going nowhere "fast"

When the dawn breaks, half a day in this House of white,
Rushing about the town, for our time is tight, Then back to the station, onto the train we go,
The Marrakesh bazaars call, the weather an implacable foe