Twas The Night Before Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the garage
Not a engine was running, not even a Dodge.
The valves were adjusted by the owner with care,
In hopes that internal combustion soon would be there.

The teenagers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of street racing danced in their heads.
And mamma in her Starchief, and I with my tool chest,
Had just settled our cars for a long winter’s rest.

When out on the driveway there arose a bunch of valve clatter,
I sprang from the garage to see what was the matter.
Away to the roll-up I flew like a flash,
Bolting through the door in one quick dash.

The moon discs were reflected the new-fallen snow,
And gave the lustre of an Earl Scheib paint job to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a hot rod sleigh, with an eight cylinder John Deere.

With an old Nascar driver, so quick and steady,
I knew in a moment it must be Richard Petty.
More rapid than stock cars his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Jimmie! Now, Tony! Now, Jeff and Robby!
On, Clint! On, Casey! On, David and Bobby!
To the top of the race track! To the top of pit wall!
Now drag away! Drag away! Drag race away all!"

Just like the adrenalin rush you get when the green flag drops,
Lest you meet with an obstacle, after the clutch pedal pops.
So up to the top of the track the coursers they flew,
To make way for the sleigh full of parts, and Petty too.

And then with a back fire, I heard in the street,
The cackle and lope of a camshaft beat.
As I was about to go to bed, and was turning around,
Down the driveway Richard Petty came with a bound.

He was dressed in a fire suit, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with rubber and soot.
A bundle of car parts he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a racer, just back from the track.

His eyes covered with sunglasses, his smile how merry!
His mustache so signature, his ride always cherry!
And then when he spoke in his usual southern drawl,
His voice commanded attention, from one and from all.

The crop of a feather he had tight in his hat,
Never to be removed, not even when he sat.
He had a lean face and stood proud and tall,
With more guts then most and true grit most of all!

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the shelves, and then turned with a jerk.
Laying his finger aside of his nose,
Suddenly there appeared a new tool box from Lowes!

He sprang to his sleigh, and to his race team gave a thumbs up,
Away they all raced, like drivers competing for the Sprint cup.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"


An original poem by Frank the Crank
©2009 Amberlight Garage