'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the paddock,
Not a motor was stirring, not even an impact ;
The stockings were hung by the pit fence with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The drivers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of championships danced in their heads;
And mamma in her checkered flag, and I in my Bell,
Had just settled down for a long winter's spell,

When out on the grid there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
To the back of the trailer I flew like a shift,
Unlocked the rampdoor, and let down the lift.

The moon on the crest of the new-paved front straight,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects so late,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a formula car, screaming by in top gear.

Such a noise caused the chief steward to immediately
arise,
And by the look on his face he had words for this guy,
He shouted aloud in his most gruff voice,