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Tales from the Peloton

A Lardbutt Christmas Carol

(with apologies to Clement C. Moore)

By Greg Taylor

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the shop,
A mechanic was wrenching, he just could not stop.
Shiny bikes were assembled and polished with care,
Expecting that Team Lardbutt soon would be there.

Team Lardbutt, well, they were snoring, face down in their beds,
As visions fueled by Guinness danced in their heads.
And mamma in her bathrobe and I in my shorts,
Had just settled down to catch the news and some sports.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I rolled off of the couch to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
"I'll bet it's that damn dog getting into the trash!"

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a dude on a Colnago, pulled by eight beefy reindeer.

A little old rider, some crazy, plump nut,
I knew in a moment that it must be St. 'Butt.
More rapid than Lance his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Boertlein! Now, Doc! Now Vines and Kinsey!
On, Dave! On, Porter! On, Allan and Mickey!
Watch out for the porch! Geez, don't hit that wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
The deer formed a paceline and leapt into the sky.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each weighty hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Lardbutt came with a bound.
He was dressed all in Lycra, from his head to his foot,
He'd had a few beers, and was hungry to boot.

The messenger bag he had flung on his back,
Swayed back and forth as he searched for a snack.
His glutes -- how they jiggled -- his legs how hairy!
His stomach was pendulous, his cholesterol scary!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the stubble on his cheeks was as white as the snow.
The stump of cigar he held tight in his teeth,
The stench it emitted defied all belief.

He had a broad bum and a big ol' fat belly,
That shook, when he pedaled, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and drunk, a right jolly old elf,
(And I laughed until I saw him relieving himself).

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon let me know that I had plenty to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work.
He cleaned out my 'fridge; then turned with a jerk,
Then finding my stash of holiday beers,
And giving a nod, down the hatch they went! Cheers!

Scratching his rump and still belching up food,
St. 'Butt found the couch - one satisfied dude.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he passed-out that night,
"Happy Christmas to all! We're riding tomorrow, right?"

P.S. Team Lardbutt would like to wish the gang at Cyclingnews a happy holiday season and best wishes for the New Year!

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