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Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the garages
Not a motorcycle was rumbling,
Except for Santa Clause's.
The leather was hung in the closet with care
In hopes that nice weather soon would be there.
Our bikes were all nestled snug in their covers
With visions of blacktop and burning up rubber.
With momma in her bandana and I in my skull cap
We had just settled down for a long winters nap.
When out on the lawn, arose such a rumble
I sprang from the bed as I started to grumble.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a pack of motorcycles, with riders and gear,
With one old driver so lively and quick
I knew in a moment it must be biker St. Nick.
He was dressed all in Leather, from his head to his foot
And his clothes were all tarnished with bugs and road soot,
A bundle of chrome he had flung on his back.
Down the chimney he came, carrying a big red sack.
He spoke not a word but went straight to his work
As he filled all the riding boots, then turned with a jerk,
And laying a finger aside of his nose
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his motorcycle, to his team gave a sign
As they all cracked their throttles and got into a line,
Now Honda, Now Harley, Now Triumph and Indian On Kawi,
On Suzuki, On Yamaha and Victory.
But I heard him exclaim as he roared out of sight
Keep the rubber side down and have a good ride.
 
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