A Visit from St. Wessner
‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through my shop
Were wrenches and parts from my unfinished chop.
And the parts I laid out on the shelving with care
Were now lost or misplaced or scattered somewhere.
The forum was sleeping all snug in their beds
While dreams of old Hondas danced in their heads.
My wife in the bedroom, and I in the grease
Were both just enjoying our own quiet and peace.
When out in the back yard there arose such a rumble
I sprang to my feet and to the shop door I did stumble.
Then outside to the junk pile I quickly did run
Tripped over the 550 frame and fell into the K1.
The moon lit the yard with an eerie type glow
I could see I was bleeding from the red turning snow.
When what did my wondering eyes then survey
But eight single cam Hondas hooked to an old sleigh.
With a little old rider I so laid back and mellow
I knew it must be Bob Wessner and no other fellow.
More rapid than Harleys his bikers they came
And he spoke into his helmet and called them by name!
“Now, Quail! Now, Cheapo! Now Eldar and Harry!
On, Ernie! On, Steve D! On, Buffo and Terry!
“To the top of the pile of old Hondas and parts
To the top of the pile, you buncha old farts!”
They landed on the pile as one might expect
Not graceful or balanced, but crumpled and wrecked.
So there in the yard sat the bikes and the crew
With the sleigh full of parts and old Bob Wessner too.
And then in a twinkling I heard from the guys
Some language that would certainly not win a prize.
And as I was staring with mouth standing open
Bob Wessner stepped up, for words I was gropin’.
He was dressed quite warmly in mechanics’ Carharts
He had over his shoulder a big bag full of parts.
His clothes were all covered with carb cleaner and grime
And grease and dirt and old rust dust and slime.
His eyes looked like they were bloodshot and tired
But with a 64 ounce Latte, he must have been wired.
In one hand he held a metric opened end wrench
In what must have been a permanent clench.
He spoke not a word, but came in through the door
Dumping more parts all over my floor.
More points and carbs and gaskets and thingies
More oil and sprockets and horn button springies.
Then he jumped into his sleigh, to the crew gave a holler
And away they all flew like a beer drinker’s dollar.
But I heard him exclaim ‘ere they flew out of sight,
“Merry Christmas, you wrench head, good luck and good night!”
