On the night before Christmas all through the clubhouse
Not a creature was stirring, not even Ciccone, the nasty, little mouse.
The guns were all hidden in the crawlspace with care,
Knowing SWAT the next morning was do to appear.
The brothers were passed out all snug in the beds,
While dreams of blue highways roared through their heads.
And, Mama in her ‘kerchief, and I in my baseball cap,
Had just finished our revel and were ready for a nap.
When out in the street there arose such a clatter,
I lurched up crying, “Hide the drugs!” Mama asked, “Baby, what’s the matter?”
Away to the window I hurriedly dashed,
“They’re early,” I whispered then threw up the sash.
The moon on the white of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of morning to all of below.
Then, what to my one good eye should appear,
But a long pack of bikes leading a truck! Filled with lawyers, guns and beer!
With a big, bearded driver, so dour and rough,
I knew in a moment he was one of us.
Swifter than bullets the bikers all came,
And he cursed and he shouted, and he called them by name!
“Now Death Head! Now, Frito! Now, Genghis and Loki!
On, Eagle! On, Surt! On Phoenix and Charley!
Put a boot in them lawyers! Get security ‘round here!
Nobody gets in or out! Are you gonna drink that beer?”
“What’s going on,” Mama wanted to know.
“Relax, baby,” I grinned. “Want another go?”
“But that noise in the street? Is SWAT already here.”
“No baby, relax. That ain’t happenin’ this year.”