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‘Twas a bit before Christmas, and I was half-soused.
Some words I was slurring, t’the chagrin of my spouse.
In the shop I was slaving, just wrenching away,
Wrecking my liver, and puffing a j.
I should have been writing for ol’ Common Tread,
Instead I was cursing a green Shovelhead.
Ms. Lemmy popped in and she told me to snooze,
So I lumbered upstairs to sleep off the booze.
I’d just passed out when I heard quite the racket,
Out the window I saw a black leather jacket.
A mud-splattered biker pulled up on my lawn,
I pondered the spectacle in between yawns.
The moon lit my yard with an artistic glow,
While the rider’s damn pipes were roaring below.
As he slipped out the clutch, I said a bad word
Cursing at the roost of snow, sod, and dirt.
He rode ‘round on one wheel all over my yard,
His pipes belching flames; the whole tire was charred.
My wife sat up straight, just a little bit miffed,
And urged me to give him a beating quite swift.
I picked up a pistol and made for the door,
Then stopped in my tracks for a minute or more.
This cycling ninny wore gloves and tall boots,
Yet he wore just the pants of his own birthday suit.
My estate in December is painfully cold,
Thus his choice of “commando” was ‘specially bold.
He kicked once again at his shifter linkage,
Paying no mind to his elfin-like shrinkage.
He pulled up a wheelie with delicate ease,
Wedding tackle flapping about in the breeze.
The yard at that moment was bright as high noon,
‘Luminated by an additional moon.
He slid the bike’s rear all over my grass,
Beginning to yell, while goosing the gas,
“Get your ass out of bed and move it outside!
This season is lovely, but you never ride!”
I couldn’t believe his impertinent cheek,
I’d just been out riding the previous week!
I stepped out the front door to unleash my wrath,
The mo'cycle skidded, blocking my path.
The engine cut off. He flipped up his visor,
Nostrils steaming like Yosemite geysers.
“I thought I’d be able to rouse you from sleep,
Now unlock that garage, and roll out that heap!”
I told him that I must return to my bunk,
I was not in the mood to motorvate drunk.
“Come back in the morn if you’ve still got the urge,
Merry Christmas for now, my ol’ buddy Spurg!”
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