T'was the white flag before Christmas, and all round the track,
Not a tool was a movin, not even a jack.
The nomex underware was hung by the chimney, not too near. Our driver an't washed it, in over two years.
The crew was nested all snug in their beds, while visions of trophy queens, danced in their heads.
And I in my firesuit, and ma in her cap, had just settled down, to read the new rule book crap.
When out side the shop, there arose such a clatter, that I sprang from my creeper, to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash, why couldn't my reaction been that good, before the last crash.
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow, gave lustrre to the race fans, hollerin out for autographs, way down yonder below.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a brand new stock car, and eight tiny reindeer.
With a little old driver so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than Junior, his coursers they came, and he whistled and shouted, and called them by name.
As the crew awakened, and stumbled out on the lawn, it could only mean the cold beer, would soon all be gone.
And the little old driver gave special thanks to his crew. His word filled with emotion, and sponsors names too.
"Thanks for yer support ya'll, and the orders so dear". "This whole things been so much dang fun, we'll be back runnin here agin next year!"
