T’was the night before Christmas and all through the shop
Not an engine was running, the tuning had stopped.
The tools were laid on the workbench with care,
The lights were turned off and I sat in a chair.
I tried to keep quiet and not make a sound
For I knew that St. Motocross would soon be around.
I wanted a glimpse of the bike that he rode,
For though no one had seen it, there’s much had been told
Of its sleekness and power, trick paint job and such,
To be able to view it would just be too much.
My eyelids grew heavy and I started to nod,
I knew that some sleep would be good for my bod.
When out in the back there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the window i flew like a flash,
Flipped up the shade and peered out through the glass.
The street light shone down on the new fallen snow
And lit up the night and the objects below.
And what should my wondering eyes then behold
But a motocross bike of the kind I’d been told.
With a little old rider, so lively and fleet,
I knew it was he that I’d waited to meet.
The bike was a ‘crosser, with a monoshock frame,
With Goodyear knobbies and a D.I.D. chain,
With a sidecar that carried the presents galore,
Bell helmets, Scott goggles, new forks and much more.
St. Moto was dressed in fine leathers of red,
And a full-coverage helmet protected his head.
In his warm gloves and boots he was something to see,
On his back were the words, North Pole M.C.
He slid to a stop with a clank and a crunch,
The bike had stopped running, the engine was lunched.
He climbed off the cycle and came to the door,
He knocked and he hollered, he just about sword.
“Please come, let me in,” is just what he said,
“My engine is broken, it has a cracked head.”
I opened the door and we brought the bike in,
He worked so fast that it made my eyes spin.
I happened to have a new part on the shelf,
And I loaned him my tools and offered my help.
He spoke not a word but went quickly to work,
Wrenching and tuning, then he turned with a jerk.
As quick as a wink, the bike was repaired,
I couldn’t believe it, just stood there and stared.
Then he started the bike, and when it ran gave a shout,
He put it in gear and let the clutch out.
He flew from the shop in a cloud of blue smoke,
To visit all bikers and other fine folk.
And I heard him exclaim as he rode from the place,
“MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD RACE.”
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