'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the pad, Not a creature was stirring and I'd been in a smash; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that Motorbike Santa soon would be there;
The missus was nestled all snug in her bed, While visions of Suzukis danced in her head; And I, still in leathers, with my pack of Bud Lite, Had just settled down for a long winter's night,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang to my bike to see what was the matter. Out of the pad I flew, doing wheelies, Sparks flew from a footrest, smoke burned from my heel.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave the luster of headlights to objects below, When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a silver Laverda, and eight bikers followed near.
With a leather-clad rider, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be Biker St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his chapter they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Triumph! Now Harley! Now Honda, Suzuki! On Thundercat! Fireblade, Vincent and Kawasaki! To the top of the porch! To the top of the roof! Now ride away! ride away! Let rip and cut loose!"
As the bikers that before the wild police rider fly, When they meet with an obstacle, they jumped to the sky, So up to the house-top those bikers they flew, And with panniers stuffed, Biker Nick followed too.
And then the moon lit the sky, like the glare of a headlamp, The leathers and helmets all shone with bright emblems, I propped my bike on its stand, and I spun on one heel, When down the roof Biker Nick drove on one wheel.
He was dressed all in leather, from his neck to his boot, And his shiny crash helmet was tarnished with soot, A bundle of bike parts he had flung on his back, And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His tailpipes they sparkled! His fairing how bright! His personalized plates luminesced in moonlight! Beneath his crash helmet a long white beard flowed, Apart from the soot stains it was white as the snow.
His expression was hidden by his helmet (full-face), But 'twas Biker St. Nick, there could be no mistake; He scowled very slightly when he saw my torn fringes, Then gave me a helmet with the visor all tinted!
He jumped from his Laverda and all that I heard, Was how, when it idled, that bike's engine PURRED! From his panniers he took new plugs and a new carburetor, And for the missus a fine set of black leathers.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, Back on his bike, with a fist in the air, He revved up, full throttle, and sped off with a roar!
He rode a few yards, to his team gave a hoot, And they revved up their bikes with kicks of their boots, Then I heard him exclaim, ere he roared out of sight, I've done what I can, get yourself a REAL bike!
