
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the garage
Not an engine was turning, not even something vintage;
The rally calendars were hung by the bench vise with care,
In hopes that Kaibeezy soon would be there;
The readers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of El Caminos danced in their heads;
And CFlo in his 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just torn down a Volvo for a long winter's nap,
When out on the
lawn brown dirt* there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the Sparco to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a lion,
Tore open the shutters and pulled out my iphone.
The moon on the breast of the newly layed asphalt
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature Roadmaster, and eight tiny reindeer,