Twas a few months before racing season,
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Not a motor was running, the cold was the reason.
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The parts were all ordered and stacked in the shop,
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In hopes that warm weather would soon bring a thaw.
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The drivers were all tucked snug in their beds,
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While visions of slide jobs danced thru their heads.
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My crew chief in his Kinser tee, and I in my Shane Stewart cap,
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Had just left the shop for a good nights nap.
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When out in the shop there arose such a clatter,
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I sprang from my recliner to see whats the matter.
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I slid across the floor like a Maxim in turn four,
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To open the window and take a look once more.
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With the moon shining down on my freshly cut lawn,
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I rubed my eyes and let out a big yawn.
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When what to my tired eyes should appear,
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A big red sprint chassis, and eight others wrapped like reindeer.
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With an old driver so dirty, so dusty, and so quick,
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I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
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Not as loud as 410 or even a 360 they came,
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As he yelled from under his helmet and called them by name!
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Now Hawkins! Now, Brown! Now Adams and Bartchy!
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On, Forbis! On, Johnson! On, Myers and Robbins!
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To the top of turn two, up close to the wall!
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Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!
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Across a dry track the Hurricane did fly,
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When met with an obstacle, he moved up high.
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To the top of the track the field moved too.
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With their wings pitched high, they were gunnin' for you.
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And then in an instant I heard being staged,
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It was the next heat, with a single driver the rage.
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As I turned from the track to see who it was,
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This driver wore red, with black boots and white fuz.
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He had all right safety gear from head to toe,
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And looked of a jolly old man that we all know.
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With a bundle tear-offs and his belts pulled tight,
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He rolled to the track for a special treat tonight.
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His eyes how they twinkled when the motor came to life!
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As he put both hands on the wheel we beheld such a sight!
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Then his long white beard began to collect dirt,
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He thought 'what the heck, a lil dirt never hurt'.
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As he dropped the visor down and gazed at his view,
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He stomped on the gas and with that we all knew.
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An ordinary driver this man was not,
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And even though it's December, it's about to get hot!
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He was larger than most, a plump, jolly old pilot,
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We laughed at first when we thought he wouldn't fit.
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But with a wink of his eye and nod of his head,
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We soon gave big props to the man in red!
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We spoke not a word when he drove straight to the front,
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Then the crowd fixed upon him, all hollered and jumped!
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Without a wink, nod, or any other magic,
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He soon drove all around that lap traffic!
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As he sprang from his chassis when the checkers waved,
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Not a speech was heard nor anything exclaimed.
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As he departed, he looked towards the track,
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Merry Christams to all, and I'll be back!
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