I didn't write this - found it & thought I'd share!
'Twas the night before Christmas, And not until Spring
Would a motor be running, not even a Wing.

The bikes are all sleeping, they're covered and warm,
Batteries are tended, nylon covers their form.

My Bros were all nestled down snug in their beds,
While visions of new chrome danced in their heads.

And I in my do-rag, bike jacket and boots
Out shoveling snow, and dreaming of scoots.

Then from the horizon there came such a clatter
My shovel I dropped, what could be the matter?

Away up the hill, I slogged through the snow
Looked up at the sky; where'd all that noise go?


Then a throb from the heavens, like straight pipes so hearty
Gave Summers' good thoughts, a loud bikers' party.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a Hog Ultra Classic, Red trailer in rear!

With a little old rider, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than a V-Rod his Ultra came on,
And he whistled, and shouted, and sang out this song;

"Now, Springer! Now, Dyna! On Ultra and Softail!
Now Vulcan! Now Indian! On Victory and Triumph!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now RIDE away! RIDE away! RIDE away all!"

As small bikes that from the semis do fly,
When they meet with the air blast, mount to the sky,

So up to the house-top that Ultra it flew
With a trailer of goodies, and ole' St. Nick too

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The rumble and thunder of pipes that gave proof.

I ran in the house, boots thumping around,
And in came St. Nick all bearded and round

Dressed all in black leather, from do-rag to boot
His chaps were all tarnished with road grime and soot;

A T-bag of goodies he'd flung on his back
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack

His shades -- how they twinkled! his do-rag how scary!
With chains intertwined, through skulls that were cherry!

His droll little mouth had done many a row,
So the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
The smoke had a strange smell; it gave him relief.

He had a broad face and a large fat beer belly
That shook when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly

He was tattooed and plump, a right jolly old rider,
So I offered a cold brew, thought what could be righter?

A wink of his eye as he downed that cold beer,
Gave me to know I had nothing to fear

He spoke not a word, but went straight to my ride
And fixed it with Chrome, Horsepower and Pride

And giving the peace sign with bikers' good cheer
Strode off to his Ultra rumbling near

He sprang on the saddle, his gloves on the bars
A wheelie he threw; then off towards the stars

I heard him exclaim, as my chest swelled with pride,
"MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD RIDE!"

 

Nice!

 

What a much better version. Thanks for the smile.

 

Good one! Thanks!

 

Very good Jeff.....and a very Merry Christmas & a Happy New Years to you & yours!

 

I for one like the original better.
Somehow, the idea of Santa in assless chaps, a doo rag, and high on cocaine scares me. I mean is he coming to leave me some toys or to rape and kill me while I sleep?

 

We don't leave milk and cookies anymore, some snow and a straw on a mirror. Just kidding!!

 

Santa LIKE

 

Displace one word, and there'll be diminishment. Displace one phrase, and the structure would fall. I read through the lines of inspiring words, at an ab-so-lute beauty. These are the very words of God himself....