'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the world
it was the off-season for most rollergirls.
Kneepads were slung round their homes without care,
In hopes they could save them by giving them air;
The players were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Championals danced in their heads;
My derby wife gone, I sat down with a beer,
to watch some old bouts to prepare for next year
Just then, there arose such a noise on the lawn
I grabbed a tire iron to see what was going on
I ran to the window expecting a fight,
Tore open the blinds and was floored by the sight.
The moon shining bright in the Christmastime frost
Gave light to a haze of what looked like exhaust.
Were my wondering eyes unprepared for a shocker
of a huge freaking bus full of jammers and blockers,
With a crazy-ass driver, so brimming with pluck,
I knew in a moment it must be Dumptruck.
More rapid than furies the skaters they came,
And he shouted “Skate Forward!” and called them by name;
"Now, Lecter! now Shattered! now, Urrk’n and Teflon!
DeRanged and Vendetta! on, Thunders and Hotrod!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now bash away! bash away! bash away all!"
As dry leaves that fly when a tornado hits
When met with a wall, they jump over that shit,
So off through the houses the skaters they flew,
From the bus full of gear, and Dumptruck came too.
Then all I could hear, at their dizzying rate,
The skipping and juking of each woman’s skate.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Into the house Dumptruck came with a bound.
He was dressed in a towel, from his waist to his knee,
And I prayed it would hold, fearing what I might see;
A bag full of skates he had flung on his back,
And wheels filled his golden lamé fanny pack.
His nip-rings -- they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks half-exposed, his back kind of hairy!
His muttonchops framing the grin that he flashed,
No beard on his chin, but a Hetfield moustache;
I smiled ‘cause I couldn’t help notice the way,
His voice sounded just like a strip club DJ;
When he talks to the girls the inflection is flirty,
He roars when he laughs, and it always sounds dirty.
He was kinda portly, as always, half nude,
Showing the world how his belly’s tattooed;
He winked and I knew I had nothing to fear,
so I reached in the fridge and I tossed him a beer;
He spoke not a word, through the gear bags he whirled
Giving new gear to the good roller girls.
With his fingers he gave me the sign of the goat,
crushed the can with his head, laughter roared from his throat;
He sprang to the bus, to his team gave a shout,
And they swiftly returned, climbed aboard, and peaced out.
But I heard him exclaim, as he guided the pack,
"Happy Christmas to all -- see you out on the track."