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Twas the night before Christmas when all through the garages.
Not a motorcycle was rumbling, except for Santa Claus'.
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 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.
Was 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.
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.
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 cracked there throttles and got into line.
Now Honda, Now Harley, Now Triumph, and Trike,
On Kawasaki, 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.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!
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