When Reindeers Retire, or Santa Gets His Licence

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The leathers were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that an Eight Four Eight soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
With visions of Moto GP in their heads;
And Mamma in her jacket, and I, visor down,
Had just addled our brains with a ride through the town;
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When - my wondering eyes hadn’t since seen the likes -
‘Twas a miniature sleigh, and a garage of bikes,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, Fireblade! now, ‘Prilla! now, Desmocedici!
On, Monster! on, Scrambler! on, ‘Stretta! Suzuki!
To the top of the drive! Fly up over the wall!
Now roar away! Race away! Dash away all!”