‘Twas six days before Christmas, and just like in Proust,
Many creatures went biking dressed all in red blouse.
All the people who hung at Twisted Spoke could but stare
At dozens St. Nicholi suddenly were there.

The Santas had locked up their two-wheeled sleds
And visions from Bloody Marys soon danced in their heads.
Some mothers in red kerchief, some dudes in red cap,
Some ate burritos and breakfast beers from on tap.
Then out to the street the Santas did scatter.
(Who had stayed in bed? You see, it was Bob Matter.)

Around Ogden and Grand they circled real fast
In a ho-ho-ho-hold-up, just like in Critical Mass.
(About moons, shaking breasts, you will want to know
Those things happened at mid-day; see pictures below.)
Then, what to the wandering Nicks should appear,
But a miniature brewery—bike parking in rear!
With a genial brewmaster, sez "Your bikes here please stick,
Cuz just in a moment we’ll drink beer real quick."

So rapid (like eagles!) his tappers they came,
Santas whistled, and shouted, and called themselves names.
Some dashed and some danced and some pranced and got kicks in,
One Santa got stupid: donned a safety cone (Vixen!).
Then they quaffed back their brews, and came down the wall
And took a group photo, Santa hams all.

‘Fore dry heaves set in the Santas did fly.
But one met with an obstacle; tho looked it, di’n’t die.
So down to the beer store those cursers they flew,
Girl Santas and boys, and elves an’ reindeer too.

And then, bike lights blinking, to Binney’s they hoofed
And found free Scotch samples—86 proof.
As the manager scowled at all the Santas around,
Out the St. Nicholi went with booze by the pound.

Now well-stocked with beer from their heads to their feet,
They wheeled on east to that Mag Mile street.
The bunches of shoppers were taken aback
When they looked at the pedalers going by in a pack.
At Erie—how they twinkled! Shoppers thought, "How merry!"
’Til Nicks sang "Deck My Balls"—then it got scary.

At Tribune’s little plaza they drew up, to and fro,
Then their beards pointed south: "To the Bikestation—Ho!"
Then, stumped—"It’s closed!"—they gritted their teeth;
Soon their urine encircled its door like a wreath.
And next—"About face! To the ice rink turn belly!"
Where folks took lots of pictures, but guards said, "Scram, pally!"

And now on to Carson’s, whose right jolly old elf
Laughed when he saw them in spite of himself.
They found him up high, bored out of his head,
Soon Santas to Santa on his throne they were wed.
(We’ve spoke not a word: They went straight to an alley:
Emptied out all their "stockings" and did other things smelly.)
Then laying down cans, they followed their nose.
And—"OK, Santa Todd!"—to the Billy Goat they rose.
The patrons, they loved ‘em, and boy did they whistle,
When up on the bar Santas danced—got down! Did they sizzle!

But all heard them exclaim as they biked out of sight,
"Pappy, this mess was a ball. . . Now let’s really get tight!"