'Twas the night before Christmas, and all 'round the track
Not a creature was stirring, not even Fatback.
Stockings were hung in garage stalls with attention
In hopes they would not fail post-Christmas inspection.

Nestled in coaches, the drivers were resting,
Snoozing away the last days before testing.
While over at Hendrick, with eyes all bloodshot
Chad Knaus worked on new ways of improving the COT.

Then out on the frontstretch arose such a roar
It rattled the windows from Turn 1 to Turn 4.
Shades were flung open, light switches flicked on
Carl Edwards cracked open his door with a yawn.

The image before them was cloaked by the night,
The glint off crushed beer cans the sole source of light.
And what did I see in the glow of my lamp,
But a No. 88 car, powered by Amp.

With an unshaven driver, in such a mood of good humor
I knew in a moment that it must be Dale Jr.
Fueled by Sonoco his supporting cast came,
And he chugged down a Bud and then called them by name:

"Now, Jeff! Now, Jimmie! Now Tony Jr. and Kelley!
On, Casey! On, Pops! On, Brad Keselowski!
Take the high line! Find the high groove!
Championship-worthy is what we'll prove!"

Right up the banking the winged car flew
With a trunk full of promise, and little Earnhardt, too.
Then suddenly on rooftop there was heard the peal
Of a Goodyear tire all screeching and squeal.

And without even giving a warning
Dale Jr. burst through the front door like the morning.
He was dressed in a firesuit from his neck to his foot
And his shiny green helmet was all covered in soot.

A carton of energy drinks slung over his shoulder,
He asked, "You got a fridge? These could be colder."
His voice was so twangy, his shirttail hung loose,
His tousled hair needed a brush and some mousse.

His cheeks bore the growth of a week's worth of stubble,
And his piercing blue eyes were just asking for trouble.
But he brought no ill will, had not a thing to decry,
Aside from some engines at DEI.

He filled all the stockings with cans brightly hued,
And a National Guard recruiting pamphlet or two.
Then cueing the radio, he called for his crew,
To bring 'round the car, and he bid me adieu.

But I heard him exclaim o'er the roar of the motor,
"Merry Christmas to all -- and 54 days 'til Daytona!"

(With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore.)