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with apologies to Clement C Moore...


Tim

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Twas the night before Christmas and outside the house, not a vehicle was stirring, not even a Roush. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that Adam’s soon would be there. The detailers were nestled all snug in their beds while visions of super sealant danced in their heads. And mamma in her kerchief and I in my cap had just waxed our Vette for a long winter’s nap. 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 shutter and threw up the sash. The moonroof was covered in the new-fallen snow and gave the luster of mid-day to objects below. When what to my wandering eyes should appear but a Miniature Cooper and eight Pliny Beers. With a little old driver so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be Mayben (Nick). More rapid than eagles his courses they came, and he whistled and shouted and called them by name. Now Dasher, now Dancer, now Prancer and Vixen! On Comet, on Cupid, on Donder and Blitzen. To the top of the Porsche! To the top of the wall! Now Swirl away! Swirl away! Swirl away all.

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