Twas the night before Christmas when all through the garage, Not a creature was stirring, not even a Dodge. The tires were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that Saint Nicholas would fill them with air. The children were nestled all snug in their stalls, While visions of tire smoke were shadowing the walls. Ma in her white walls, and I in my blacks, Had just settled down for a matter of fact. When out on the lawn there rose such a fuss, I sped from my stall like a jet-propelled bus. Away to the door I flew like a flash, Forgot the black ice and slipped on my ash. The moon on the crest of the new fallen snow Gave the luster of fresh wax to objects below. If what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a 1963 Sport Fury with toys in the rear. The little old driver sped on so quick, I knew in a moment it must be Saint Nick. Then in a moment I heard on the rooftop, The skidding of the tires as he came to a stop. As I backed away and turned around, Down the chimney Saint Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, Filled the tires, checked the oil, and turned with a jerk. He sprang to his car, to the motor he gave the gas, It must be a Max Wedge it moved so fast. But I heard him exclaim as he sped out of sight, Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good MoPar night!
Posted on: Thu, 25 Dec 2014 17:52:24 +0000
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