Twas The Night Before The Rally

August 10, 2002	August 10, 2002	August 10, 2002	May 3, 2003	May 3, 2003	May 3, 2003

Twas the night before the Rally, and all through the house
The bike would not start, that ungrateful louse.
I'd rebuilt the wreck, I'd treated it fair,
But that darn Police bike, made me pull out my hair.

My inner child was nestled all snug in my bed,
While visions of Rally's danced in my head.
And I in my doo-rag, stuffed under my cap,
Had just settle down, for a short fitful nap.

When out on the drive, there arose such a clatter,
I dashed from my bed, just like a mad hatter.
Away to the garage I flew like a flash,
Tore open the door, I was ready to bash.

When what to my wondrous eyes should appear,
But all those club members that I hold so dear.
With a little old leader, you just had to like,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Mike.

More rapid than Beemers, his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Eli! now, Chris! now, Judy and Dave!
On, Joseph! on Kathy! on Vladimir the brave!

So up into the garage, the coursers they flew,
With a handful of tools, and St. Michael too.
And then, in a twinkling, their knowledge they plied,
And then went to work on my much beloved ride.

Their eyes -- how they twinkled! their dimples how merry!
Their cheeks were like roses, they swarmed in like fairies!
They looked at my eyes and my little round belly,
That shook, as I cried, like a bowlful of jelly.

With a wink of Mike's eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
They spoke not a word, but went straight to their work,
And applied all their wrenches; then turned them with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,
St. Mike turned the key, and we all just froze.
The engine just grumbled, and then sprang to life,
The gang they all cheered, and I hugged my wife.

Mike sprang to his Beemer, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he rode out of sight,
"Don't you ever again, buy no damn wrecked bike."

My apologies and thanks to Clement Clarke Moore, author of "Twas The Night Before Christmas".
Kim Miles, May 3, 2003