12/24/2024
Twas the night before Christmas, and upon my garage bench,
Not a tool was spinning, not even a wrench.
The 55s were all parked in their stalls with great care,
In hope that St Nicholas soon would be there.
This car guy was nestled all snug in bed,
While visions of Nomads raced through his head.
And his wife in her overalls and him in his cap,
Had just parked for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the driveway there arose a valve clatter,
He sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the garage he flew,
But he tripped on a floor jack and turned black and blue.
The moon on the paint of the shiny car’s hood,
Had the luster of fresh paint on cars that are good.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a parade of tri-fives with a driver so dear.
He was a spirited old racer, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than racers his cars they all came,
And he honked, and blipped throttles, and called them by name!
“Now 55! Now, 56! Now, 57 and Chevrolet!
On, Nomad! On, BelAir! Oh Sedan, you are the man!
Drive 55! Drive 56! Drive 57 and Nomad too!
Shift V6! Shift V8! Shift 454 and boy how they flew!”
The smell of fuel lingered thick in the air,
And the marks of burnt rubber on my driveway were there,
So on to the driveway the marques how they flew,
It was a sleigh pulled by tri-fives, driven by St Nick too.
And then, all a revving, I heard in the shed
The distinct double clutch of a Nomad of red.
As I poked in my head, he was turning around,
And into my garage did St Nick pull up with a loud sound.
He was dressed like a racer, from his head to his foot,
And his race suit was tarnished with oil and black diesel soot.
A bundle of car parts he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a mechanic opening up his tool sack.
His eyes-how they twinkled! His dimples how quaint!
His cheeks were like chrome and his nose like metallic paint!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as a headlight’s glow.
The exhaust from his tail pipes drifted through the night’s air
And he shut down the engines with a quick blip and a care.
His smiling face looked out, of his Bell helmet all round,
He shook when he laughed, like a 454 making a great sound!
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old racer
And I laughed when I saw him, like a barn find car chaser.
A wink of his eyes were like the sparkle of chrome stars,
And I knew that this old jolly fellow really loved great cars.
He spoke not a word, and delivered his treats,
He filled the glove boxes, the trunks and the bucket seats.
And laying his wrench aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, into his Nomad he arose!
The cars they all fired up with a glorious roar,
And away they all drove right out the garage door.
How he yelled with excitement, as he drove out of sight,
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”
