Twas the night before Christmas and way out in space, the Apollo 8 crew had just won the moon race. The headsets were hung by the consoles with care, in hopes that Chris Kraft soon would be there.
Frank Borman was nestled all snug in his bed, while visions of REFSMMAT’s danced in his head; and Jim Lovell, in his couch, and Anders, in the bay, were racking their brains over a computer display.
When out of the DSKY, there arose such a clatter, Frank sprang from his bed to see what was the matter. Away to the sextant he flew like a flash, to make sure they weren’t going to crash.
The light on the breast of the moon’s jagged crust gave a luster of green cheeses to the gray lunar dust. When what to his wondering eyes should appear, but a Burma Shave sign saying ‘Kilroy was here.’