‘Twas the night before 2018 MotoGP, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The favorites were chosen by the fans with great care,
In hopes that a victory soon would be theirs;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Rossi raced in their heads;
And mamma in her leathers, and I in my helmet,
Had just settled our brains for a long MotoGP race racket,
When out on the track there arose such a brap,
I sprang from the sleep to see who was in a scrap.
Away to the seat I flew like a flash,
Turned up the volume and threw up "do not disturb" sash.
The moon on the breast of the MotoGP models
Gave the luster of jealousy to motos that were audible,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a fully stock paddock, and quick shifting gears,
With a young virile rider, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be Bradley Smith.
More rapid than eagles the bikes they did inflame,
And fans whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
Adapted from "A Visit from St. Nicholas" Clement Clarke Moore.
Sleep well, MotoGP people. Tomorrow is the BIG day!