Twas Christmas Eve and in a bunker, John Connor was a-hiding.
For just one night he prayed he’d find reprieve from all the fighting.
He hunkered down, surveyed his room, and all that he could see
Was a photo of his mother with a gutted-out humvee.
A sock was hung upon his rifle with the greatest care
With the hope that killer robots wouldn’t bust into his lair.
His eyelids became heavy as his thoughts began to trail
When from above he heard a single gunshot, then a wail!