An Engine Fanatic's Version

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889 Buford Highway, Buford, Georgia 30518.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the show,
Not an engine was running, not even an Alamo.
The stockings were hung on the campers with care,
In hopes that St. Nick soon would be there,
To fill them with magnetos and missing parts too,
So the old, antique engines could be restored just like new.
The tractors had stopped running and were parked under trees,
While the smell of hot dogs could be sensed through the breeze.
When out in the woods there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my lawn chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the foliage I flew like a flash,
And into a bush, 1 did smash.
The stars up in the sky, they did show,
But now around my head they did glow.
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a giant sleigh pulled by an 'R' John Deere.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
He was round and jolly, and dressed like St. Nick.
When the smoke had cleared, and the truth was shown,
St. Nick was the best old engine mechanic the world had ever known.
He had a broad face and a round little belly,
That shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye, and twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Doing his tedious task without the slightest jerk.
He fixed all the engines, and restored them like new.
Just before the morning came with its new fallen dew,
Everyone thanked St. Nick for preserving the past,
And all he had to say was, 'I guarantee it to last!'
He sprang to his 'R', cranked it up and put it in gear,
Yelling as he left, 'I'll see you here again next year!'