Joyce Epperson

Twas the night before Christmas and all was quiet in my garage.
Nothing was stirring, not even the old barge.
The garage had been cleaned with much care, in hopes of a new Mustang soon to be there.
The tools were nestled all safe in the shed to make space where a new pony might stead.
Teenage Sally in her room on the phone, while Timmy down the hall computed on his own.
My socks were hung by the chimney to air; hinting for someone to buy me a new pair.
Mama had gone shopping at the mall, and I settled in to watch a game of pro ball.
After a little spiked egg nog, I drifted into a nice winter's fog.
Didn't quite make it to bed, before visions of SGRPLUM* danced in my head.

When out in the yard there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the Lazy Boy to 
see what's the matter.
Stubbing my  toe, "oh drat" I swore; pushed aside the cat and tore open the door.
The moon so bright on the new fallen snow, reminded me of a white Mach 1 I know.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a Cobra convertible with eight cylin-deers.
Powered by more than 300 horses, the stuff of middle aged crises and divorces.
It may be cliché, but yes it was red.
Was this an illusion, all in my head?
With a little old driver, so lively was he, I knew in a moment it must be St. Lee.
More rapid than Comets his elves they came, as he whistled and shouted and called them by name.
"Now Shelby, now Shinoda, now Saleen, and MacLaren; no Chevy nor Mopar, it's for 
Mustangs we're carin'."
Off the highway the pony car flew, the pretty red sleigh carrying St. Lee, too.
Reindeer used to tow him up in the sky; now in a Mustang he flies.

Then in a flash there was in the drive, the squeal of tires announcing he'd arrived.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around, through the door came St. Lee with a bound.  
I invited him to share cookies and mocha. 
This father of Mustang, Iacocca.
Laughter implied he was merry.  Cold dimpled cheeks the color of cherry.
His eyes twinkled oh so bright, like headlights in the night.
So round was his belly, it reminded me of tires by Pirelli.
Then I let out a chuckle, for there was a Mustang embossed on his belt buckle.
A bundle of toys he flung of his back.  Imagine my surprise when he pulled out 
an eight grand tach. 
Many more prizes he removed from that bag, enough parts to restore any old nag.

While St. Lee reviewed my wish list, about Mustangs we reminisced.
Some new, some old, those meek and those bold.  Even ones I shouldn't have sold.
My first it was mellow 'cause it was a six cylinder and yellow.
My buddy's fastback was really cool, that we raced after high school.
A Shelby, with lots of horses, I'd choose over Porsches.
Then excited talk, surrounding the advent of the Mach.
Fondly, we recalled the Boss, against which many races were lost.
During the seventies we were saddest; our rides were no longer fastest.  
To save gas, Mustangs were gelded; with Pintos they melded.
Masquerading as a Mustang (II) too; these we did eschew!
About them we shouldn't wince; they've provided a continuance.
By the eighties dignity was restored, with the Mustang we were no longer bored.
Cruising in a GT 5.0, or was it a T-top turbo?  In a SVO I yelled "giddy-up GO!!"
Nineties' Mustangs are a new breed, I'm a fan of this spirited steed. 
After a 35 year pony parade, and a new century we soon invade, 
our passion for Mustang won't ever fade.

Suddenly, St. Lee, he stood with a jerk, announcing "it's time to get back to work."
Grabbing my keys from off the shelf, he moves quick for a little old elf.
Out to the garage he scurried, leaving me inside and worried.
The clock on the mantel began to chime; it wasn't long the passage of time.
In a brief moment he returned; although, I'm afraid the cookies had burned.
His clothes were all tarnished with grease and oil.  What was the purpose behind his toil?
With a wink of his eye and a nod of his  head, I knew there was nothing to dread.
He pointed out the door to the gift of his Christmas chore.
Behold, in this time of Yule, a miracle had transformed my mule.
Great was that present of mine.  For me he'd built a 429!
A dream come true, was my new stallion of blue!  
With my heart full of gratitude and glee, I wanted to thank that rad dude St. Lee.
But out the door he fled, and sprang into his candy apple sled.
Much to my dismay in the Cobra he sped away.
I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight,

"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night."

The story you may think ends right here.  That would be too much holiday cheer.
For about then my wife pulled into the drive.  I know the sound of her car when it's alive.
About that sorry wagon, you won't hear me braggin'."
Rudely awakened from my slumber, and concerned about the expense of her plunder.
Just arising from a nice nap, I wanted to hear none of her flap.
Fast was my escape to the garage.  Aghast, to realize I'd seen only a mirage.
About St. Lee I did hallucinate.  Alas, there was no V-8.
Feeling the fool and really silly.  Oh so cruel, not even a filly.
Sadly, my mind had played a dirty trick.  All I found was my rusty old Bu-ick!

*SGRPLUM - author's 1997 deep violet GT Mustang