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Merry Christmas. Twas the night before


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Twas the Night Before Race Day


Twas the night before race day, when all through the garage, not an engine was turning, not even my Dodge.

The spanners where hung by the compressor with care, in hopes that St. Horsepower soon would be there.



The mechanics were nestled all snug in their bays, while visions of champagne put their heads in a daze,

With me in my helmet and the car on the rack, we knew every spark plug had exactly the right gap.


When out in the paddock there arose such a whine, I raced from pit lane to see if the car was mine.

Away to the start grid I flew like a shot, but alas, the racer that should be there, was not.


The moon on the tarmac of the freshly swept track, gave shimmering ghost waves and a chill down my back.

When, what to my searching ears did I hear? But a very fast race car that was drawing quite near.


With a hard bitten driver, just passing the tower, I knew in a moment it must be St. Horsepower.

More rapid than Vettel his shifting so smooth, and he waved, and shouted Ive found this cars groove!


More horsepower, more torque, more petrol for me! On pit crew, on stat man, on manager and see!

To the left of the slow ones, to the front of the pack! Now Press Harder! Press Harder! Press Harder, no slack!


As race programs that before the grids draft go, when they come to the crash fence they flutter and slow.

So round turn four the speedy car flew, with really hot tires holding the track just like glue.


And then, just like that, I heard from pit lane, the rumble of idle, more horsepower to gain?

As I looked over the Armco to check on the car, pitting St. Horsepower braked at the STOP bar.


He was dressed all in Nomex, from his head to his feet, and his suit was dirty with rubber, oil, sweat from heat.

The remains of a gear shift he held in his hand, and he shouted to the crew, Get the pit fully manned!


His eyes, sharp as razors! His muscles, oh so taut! His ears were like brake pads, his brow oh so fraught.

But his hard little lips were fixed in a grin, and the glint in his eyes told us we would win!


The steering wheel he held tight in his grip, and scorch from the brakes filled his nose to the tip.

He had square shoulders and a race-toughened ab, his hours in the seat meant he had no extra flab!


He was chummy and joked, a right happy chap, and we smiled when we saw him, knowing thered be no flap.

A whistle from his lips and a twist of a wrench, soon gave us to know, our thirst to win he would quench!


He showed the mechanics where things all went wrong. With tools and parts flying, it was fixed before long.

And shimmying back into that racing car seat, he was back on the track without losing a beat.


He sprang to the front, to his team gave a wave, and they rose to their feet to cheer and give rave.

But we heard him exclaim as he crossed the finish line,


Happy Race Day to All, This Car Runs Just Fine!

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