‘Twas The Night Before Raceday
A fun holiday story written with help from some race fans!
‘Twas the night before raceday, and all through Hawkeye Downs,
Not a HydroFlask was stirring, nor even a panther
The roll cages were hung by the chimney with care,
in hopes that Danica Patrick soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of checkered flags danced in their heads.
And Mama in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
had just settled our rumps for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the roof there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my crib to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
tore open the shutter and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
gave the lustre of midday to objects below,
when, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a miniature Pontiac and eight tiny beers
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be Casey Mears.
More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came,
and he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now Mike McDonald! Now Braxton Franks!
Now, Drew Nickell and Jacob Tiegen!
On, Scott Siems! On, Jason Doyle!
On, Stacy Olson and Griffin McGrath!
To the top of the porch!
To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away!
Dash away all!”
As dirty leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky
so up to the door knob the coursers they flew,
with the car full of toys, and Neil Bonnet too.
And then, in a twinkling, I galloped on the roof
the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
down the chimney Mark Ironside came with a bound.
He was dressed all in plastic bags, from his head to his foot,
and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of giraffes he had flung on his back,
and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes–how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his toes like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
and the spark plugs on his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a pink face and a little round belly,
that shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was smelly and plump, a right jolly old elf,
and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
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 filled all the tires, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his number 16 Chrysler sponsored by AutoCrafters , to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Raceday to all, and to all a good night!”