Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The boot liners were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.
The bikers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of end cans danced in their heads.
And mamma in her leathers and I in my lid,
Had just put the bikes away so we didn’t skid.
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 as quick as you like,
To see if the chavs, were off with my bike.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But 8 tiny bikes and a trike to the rear!.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than fireblades his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
“Now Yamaha! now, Honda! now, Ducati and Triumph!
On, Harley! On, Suzuki!, on BMW and KTM!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”
As bikers that highside up do they fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard up higher
The Revving and Screeching of each little tyre.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in leather, from his head to his foot,
And onto his feet were slipped Sidi race boots.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.
His eyes-how they twinkled from under his lid!
He flipped up the front and his gloves he undid!
He asked for a brew and a hot bacon roll,
As this is the food for a good bikers soul.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, 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 trike, 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 Christmas London Bikers, and to all a good-night!”
