I happened to write this, this week before checking the list. I thought I was
the lone poet, but I'm glad others are inspired also this time of year.
Here's "Mr. K's Christmas Visit."
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the garage
Not a battery was humming, not even a charge;
The hammers were hung by the wrenches with care,
In hopes that Mr.K soon would be there;
The Datsuns were nestled all snug with their Falkens,
While visions of Nitrous raced in their valve covers;
And Fairlady in her soft top, and I in my cap,
Had just drained our gas tank for a long winterbs nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from under the car to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the garage door and moved that old dash.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a 67.5 2000, with panasports front and rear,
With a little old driver, so lively and gray,
I knew in a moment it must be Mr. K.
More rapid than eagles his challengers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, MG! now, Triumph! now, Alfa and Benz!
On, GM! on, Chrysler! on, Mustang and friends!
To the top of the lane! to the top of the strip!
Now drive away! drive away! Come on let her Rip!"
So up to the drag strip the challengers they flew,
With the Fairlady in front, and Mr. K. driving too.
And then, in a roar, the solexes opened up.
He let out the clutch, and she started to gallup.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the street and into my garage Mr. K came with a bound.
He was dressed in BRE, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with Grease and soot;
A bundle of Ball Joints he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a Datsun Dealer just opening his pack.
Those headlightsbhow they twinkled! his horn sounded so merry!
That paint was like glass, his Roadster was cherry!
The clean little grill was as straight as a line
And the chrome on the bumpers was just as fine;
The stump of a smog pump he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
And his seatbelt barely fit that bowlful of jelly.
He was happy and windblown, a right jolly old elf,
His top was always down, speakers on the package shelf;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And signed over the pink slip; then handed me a zerk,
And laying the key on top of the hood,
And giving a thumbs up, like I knew he would;
He sprang to his feet, got ready to go,
And then thought again, there was something I should know,
b You keep that Dear Lady, Take care of her well,
"Tune her up, grease the joints, and donbt EVER sell."
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