‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro’ the shop,
Not a power tool was stirring, nor even a mop;
The spray guns were hung by the paint booth with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The technicians were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of repair procedures danc’d in their heads.
I sat in my office, eyes watching the clock,
Waiting for nothing but to close up the shop.
When out in the lot there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the repair bay I flew like a flash,
Tore through the paint booth, and ran a mad dash.
Outside, the moon shone bright on the new-fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below;
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a smashed-up old Mustang, with no idea how it got here.
A little old driver popped out, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it could not be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles she ran ‘round the yard,
She whistled, and shouted, and held out our card:
“Is there anyone here? Any person around?
I need my car fixed; I must be homebound!”
With mask in hand, I went down to the door,
“Good evening, ma’am,” I said, standing tall,
“Can I help you with anything? Anything at all?”
She told me of what her collision implied,
I pondered my brain for any fast fixes in mind;
I told her to wait, and to the shop floor I flew,
With my dent kit, weld gear and the Mustang, too.
And then in a twinkling, I took to my work,
Completed an estimate, disassembled and smirked.
All of a sudden I heard a great bash!
With a jolt and a jump, I turned toward the crash.
Down the chimney, the real St. Nick came with a bound:
Hushed finger to mouth, he urged me, “Don’t make a sound.”
He was dress’d all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnish’d with ashes and soot.
A bundle of tools was flung on his back,
And he look’d like a peddler just opening his pack:
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how merry,
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of 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 broad face, and a little round belly
That shook when he laugh’d, like a bowl full of jelly:
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laugh’d 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 the car,
He Bondo’d the body and sprayed the door.
And when he was finished, he flashed me a smirk,
He fill’d all the staff’s stockings; then turn’d with a jerk.
He gave me a nod, and up the chimney, he ran.
Leaving my dazzled, alone, spray gun in my hand.
Still dazed, I went to the customer to see,
That she was still waiting, her eyes filled with glee.
“Did you fix it, sir? Will I be home Christmas Eve?”
I smiled, nodded and peered out to the lot,
“Not by myself, however, there was some help that I got.”
“Thank you so much, Merry Christmas to you,”
and out of the shop, to the fixed car, she flew.
Behind her, St. Nicholas soared through the sky,
reindeer all neighing—oh, what a sweet ride.
I packed up my things and closed down the shop,
And away they all flew, with a skip and a hop.
But I heard him exclaim, as they drove out of sight—
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
